The Two Bloggers
by Catherine Spark
Summary: Note: Chapters in this have had to be re-jigged to bring it in line with the site's guidelines, so there are slightly less than before. See my profile or the forum for explanation. Summary: First they blogged about meeting Moriarty. Now it's like a sausage machine: While the ingredients remain, the sausages will keep coming.../myforums/Catherine Spark/1252310
1. Sherlock and John

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

So we met the man himself. Well, I say we met him – I became his bomb-puppet. Then when I grabbed onto him and yelled at Sherlock to run, he became _my_ bomb-puppet – for a few seconds at any rate. We all knew that if the sniper fired at me, the man who was behind all the calculated, elegantly horrifying murders would be blasted to pieces and so would I. Sherlock didn't run, even in the split second of surprise that he had at his disposal. When it was over (or at least over for a few minutes) I was shaken but not significantly traumatised. After all it's not like I haven't faced imminent death from snipers, terrorists and bombers before. No – the things that really did bowl me over were the two truths I learned that night about the way my companion sees me and the world.

First and most importantly – he really meant it when he introduced me as his 'friend' rather than his 'colleague', as I had corrected him at the bank. As soon as that bastard had disappeared Sherlock Holmes dropped to his knees in front of me. "Alright," he muttered, then – with fierce sincerity – "_Are you alright?_" With shaking hands he literally wrenched that bomb off me with no concern for his own safety, and shoved them as far away from us as he could. Then he walked back and forth for some seconds, working off the adrenaline.

It was worth a bomb-scare – it was worth many bomb-scares – to see the depth of loyalty and affection that lay behind that dead monotone and cold, robotic mask. For a moment the hard grey eyes had dimmed and the usually firm, resolute lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain – and it must indeed be a great heart that can feel for a person so genuinely and with such intensity after so short a time. The frequent ingratitude for my many hours of effort and exhertion on his part, the cruel little jibes at my expense, the incredible mess, the often callous and inappropriate manner – all these minor irritations were instantly forgiven and forgotten in that moment of revelation.

"That er…thing that you did – that you offered to do, that was…um…good…" Sherlock spoke with barely suppressed emotion and an uncharacteristic stutter as he paced up and down, nerves all a-flutter. It was only later that I realised what an incredible compliment I had been paid, and learned a second lesson about how my flatmate saw me. I remember something inspecter Lestrade said when we were investigating the Study in Pink: "He is a great man. Maybe one day he'll be a good one too." Sherlock meant 'good' in the same sense. He was not labelling my action as something to be noted, remembered and approved of, not just something appropriate, a bright idea, impressive. He meant more than that. He meant that my action and its intentions and implications epitomised the actual concept of goodness itself – regardless of whether it was appropriate or even intelligent. In that light, who could ever ask for a greater compliment or acknowledgement?

Of course Sherlock is still the same annoying, inconsiderate, inscrutable, impenetrable, untidy, disrespectful, arrogant, ignorant, antisocial git to live with and work with as ever. He still leaves body parts in the fridge or on the book shelf. He still practices the violin in the middle of the night and enjoys ordering people around when he can't be bothered to move, all to facilitate his own thought patterns and investigations. He still frequently uses me as a verbal punchbag and scapegoat. But I also know now that my presence _does_ make a real difference to him (and not just as an assistant), and that he also has a heart and a conscience and feelings of a sort, however unorthodox and unpredictable they may be in manifesting themselves. That knowledge is enough to ensure that I will, when the next opportunity arises, introduce him as my _friend_.

_**Posted By Sherlock M. Holmes**_

At sea. Wish I'd studied feelings more closely so I could catalgoue this one and file it away along with a straightforward, rational explanation. My friend and colleague Doctor John Watson offered to sacrifice his own life in a combined effort to kill M. and save me. It's complicated. Would have been fine if he'd died. Well. Not fine. But I could have coped: Honour his memory and all that, and then carry on as normal…with a replacement flatmate. But no – we both survived.

How do I get up each morning and have breakfast with a guy who would readily have lain down his life to save me and who, I suspect, would do it again in a moment should another situation arise? I told John – I told him not to make heroes out of people, because you'll only be disappointed, and now I find myself struggling to follow that same advice.

Stupid thing is I still don't know if I'm his friend or not. It's true he helps me a great deal, but that is because he is a fighting man who needs the action and adrenaline of the war. The way he speaks, the way he holds himself, his expression, his reactions say as much. His 'bad' leg was never in better form than when the game was on, and his hands, which tremble sometimes in the dull daily monotony between cases, are uncannily steady with a gun at the moment of crisis. The fact that he was ready to die to save me proves nothing: He is a man of action with an iron nerve and strong morals, and when he feels something needs to be done he will do it. I have no doubt he would do it for a stranger if he thought they needed to be saved.

True, John calls my deductions 'fantastic' and 'extraordinary' and 'brilliant'. But he is refering exclusively to my abilities when he makes such comments. It seems to bother him, like it bothers everyone else, that I don't cry over bodies or the fate of victims, or at least behave with the delicacy and respect that society demands. Crying won't help to avenge or rescue them and when an earthquake or tsunami or war breaks out you don't walk through hushed streets of people wearing black and sobbing. Life carries on. At least with crime you get an opportunity to avenge the victim, unlike accidents or natural disasters which, by the way, I try to avoid hearing about as they are irrelevant to me and make me feel depressed and remind me how helpless we all ultimately are.

Let me try to explain my general attitude towards crime and detection, and some of the reasoning behind it: A clever murderer or thief has talent, maybe even genius. Talent and genius are, or should be, assessed entirely objectively, independent of personal morality or prejudice. Let me explain further. Imagine hearing a brilliant piece of music and remarking on the skill of the composer. Then you find out that said composer tortured his three children to death. Such a fact would turn any sane person sick at heart, but the quality of the work (and therefore the level of musical talent) would still be the same after you had been told about the children. All talentdeserves acknowledgement, even if only in passing, for acknowledgement of talent is also an acknowledgement of truth and is therefore once again impersonal. Given all this, people should accept that I appreciate an elegant crime for its intellectual qualities, rather than emotional, aesthetic or ethical ones, and leave it at that.

Most people will also agree there is nothing wrong with rejoicing when you find or get offered a useful job that you are good at and find interesting – and for me that would be getting a case to solve. It's bad luck that my area of work is regarded by most as somewhat delicate in nature. In this life you are either bored or you are not bored. If you're bored you're unhappy. If you're not bored you're happy. Solving cases is the one passtime for me that is useful, that I'm good at and that is not boring. Therefore being given a new investigation makes me happy.

Why do I enjoy John's company? Well whenever he messes up he guides me a little further in the right direction. He's also an ear, and talking to an ear rather than a wall stimulates thoughts and prompts memories. He appreciates my talent. He doesn't goad me – I've always managed to show the goader up for the idiot that he or she is, but it's still nice to catch a break. He's mindblowingly tolerant, hardly ever shouts, never stays angry very long, and is optimistic in a quiet, cynical way that is pleasing to me. He's incredibly tenacious and often quite resourceful. He's my anchor and my blogger, and finally I like the background noise. Oh, and he points out when I say things in a manner or with a phrasing that creates an effect I don't intend, which means I get what I need faster without misunderstandings. Of course it's dangerous to get attached to anybody. People are not to be trusted – even the best of them.

And yet…Mycroft does his duty by me as a brother. The rest of the world pretty much is professionally civil to me when they need my abilities and then blanks me out when they have their answers (mind you with most people I'm positively happy about that). I've never been bothered by other people's opinions before, but John has come the closest to actually _liking _me that anyone has ever come. I'm intrigued, and I must say I'm perplexed as well. I almost think I could get _used_ to this friend malarky.

One final morsal of thought: There is too much _kind_ness in the world and not enough _good_ness. Kindness blinds people and obscures the truth. Hack away at the layers of fluffy padding which surround modern life and we'll see all those ugly problems clearly enough to start thinking of ways to solve them. Because solving problems is good in the true sense of the word. And maybe, just maybe one day this collective goodness could enable the achievement of that real, deep, complete, inconceivable, ultimate puzzle of them all...


	2. Email from Mycroft to John, After SiP

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FROM: Mycroft Holmes **m_hol&Whit-gov,ac,uk**

TO: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

CC**: **Maria Holmes **mam2s+m&aol,co,uk**

BCC**: **

SUBJECT**:** Sherlock

Dear Doctor Watson,

Humility has never come easily to a Holmes, but please accept my sincere apologies for the secretive, disrespectful and distrustful way I treated you upon our (rather informal) introduction. My thinking was this: It was clear that you had been in the army and that you were chafing against inaction. Sherlock will doubtless have explained the details about your appearance that give away your army career, and as I explained to you the fact that you missed the war was obvious from the patterns of tremor and stillness in your hands. I also knew – for my connections are extensive – that you had become Sherlock's flatmate.

As you are a reasonable and intelligent man, I knew it was only a matter of time before either you got curious as to Sherlock's relations with the police (not to mention the body parts in the fridge), and asked him about his job – or he told you himself in his own time. Between you and me, he doesn't carry off the façade of being enigmatic very well, does he? Besides, an aloof character like my brother invariably elicits intrigue, and frequently affection too (don't ask me why). You know how concerned I am for Sherlock's safety: You have seen for yourself the narrow border between genius and madness. If something went wrong there would never be another like him – not another detective, not another friend, not another brother. I confess that I was worried your longing for the war would aggravate his own longing for danger, and that in collaborating with him you might push him too far. I see now that the opposite is true – you keep him grounded in reality and set limits for how far he is allowed to go. Incidentally the offer still stands if you care to take it – money for updates.

You don't know it yet, Doctor Watson, but you care about Sherlock not just as a colleague but for his own sake too. Your protectiveness of him and loyalty to him in the car park (against all rationality) was proof enough of that; more so actually than the fact that you shot the cabby to save his life. We all know that in any situation where there is a deserving life to be saved – friend, foe, stranger or colleague – John Watson will try to save it, so it reflects nothing about the regard in which you hold my brother.

Sherlock only knows one way of making friends. What he does is he waits until he finds one person whom he decides he likes, and then he latches onto them with the single-minded tenacity of a limpet. You instantly become the most important and trusted person in his life. He'll come to you at all hours expecting action coupled with practical and moral support. You can slight him, rebuke him, refuse him, disappoint him, get angry at him, even punch him or be intellectually slow around him – it won't make a blind bit of difference to the affectionate regard in which he holds you, or the degree to which he depends upon you.

Now, as Sherlock's brother I know that he has latched onto you because of the unfair way in which he treats you. If his manner towards you was caring and considerate, if he praised your every effort, if he listened closely to everything you had to say and acknowledged your every comment with a favourable reaction, I would know that he either wanted to trick something out of you, or had not allowed you under his skin: It's not natural for him to act like that. The fact that he orders you about, shouts at you, ignores you and slights your efforts, yet comes to you for assistance in his cases or breaks his train of thought for you, shows that he feels secure enough around you to relax and be himself.

As you may now see, being the recipient of affection from Sherlock is a very intense and often infuriating experience – better people than you have buckled under it. Obviously that used to cause a lot of heartache for him, so he largely shut down emotionally and over-compensated intellectually. I should also reassure you that despite his unfortunate manner Sherlock has not an ounce of intentional harshness or cruelty in him. He does often get carried away on a case and he also manipulates people – not entirely morally I might add – but he always does so in an attempt to save or avenge a good person's life or dignity, and he never plays games with his own (sound) conscience. I personally guarantee that knowing my brother is worth all the frustration. So long as you are not a criminal, if you accept friendship from Sherlock Holmes you'll have a staunch ally for life.

Good luck, Doctor Watson, and feel free to correspond should any formidable difficulties arise,

Sincerely yours,

Mycroft Holmes.

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_Sent today at 19:52:36 GMT (BST)_


	3. Mrs Hudson, courtesy of Sherlock

_**Posted by M. Hudson**_

First off I'm not very up on the internet or computers or anything like that. Sherlock's been showing me how to blog (God, he must be incredibly bored to resort to that!) _[You have just no idea]_ using his website thingy. If something doesn't come up for him soon that horrible pocky face on the wall will have a little friend. He's driving me nuts to be honest. Sherlock, not the pocky face _[Sooorreeee]_. Don't misunderstand me: I love the lad to bits when all's said and done, and I know he's an unconventional thinker. Even so there is only so much gunfire and violin abuse a woman can take, especially in the early hours of the morning _[I said I was sorry!]_. At least John has some sense in him and can sit still for half an hour _[That's cos he's an idiot]_. When he gets going though he's just as bad _[Just as GOOD]_ in his own way – they encourage each other, those two _[I'm very encouraging :-) ]_.

Mind you, it's senseless isn't it? All the relentless feuding, killing, robbing, blackmail and bloodshed in this city, let alone the world. My husband – he lived in the country and his parents used to shoot rabbits. I've often wondered whether that's what made him start to go wrong. He became accustomed to killing early on, and it was like he couldn't stop. Not that he ever wanted to stop – he had no morality after all _[That, for all your information, is the difference between a __**psychopath **__and a __**sociopath**__]_. He saw it like some kind of macabre game – he worked up the levels from small to bigger, better, more ferocious. First it was cockroaches with a magnifying glass, so I heard. Then drowning rats and mice which he would catch with baited traps. His father also made him drown a litter of unwanted kittens that turned up in the barn one day. Then he took up the family sport of shooting rabbits, but of course he couldn't stop there – he added pine martens, foxes and deer to his bag. I expect he thought he was being good and helping cull the vermin…or that was his excuse at any rate _[Squish fetish?]_. Then he went out to Africa for five years, and helped to keep down man-eating lions, and also their cubs, to ensure the safety of the villagers. He was hailed as a hero out there for saving the lives of the villagers.

But then he fell in with a gang of poachers. I only found that out later. He killed elephants, rhinoceroses and finally entered into the bush meat trade. Of course I didn't hear about the last until years afterwards. It fair turned my stomach to think of him killing something so nearly human. I tried to excuse it in my mind, but I never felt the same way about him after that. He always took such pride in his trophies too. He even had a fox stuffed and insisted on putting it in our living room _[Wish I could've had a peek]_. It scared me half to death to come down in the night for the small room _[T.M.I.] _or a hot water bottle, and see those dead, glassy eyes glittering orange at me in the light from the street.

Eventually the inevitable happened and he _did _kill a human being. It was several years ago now, but he was working in America on a five year placement. I remained over here as my mother was ill at the time, and it was the first peace I had experienced for over a decade _[Peace is overrated]_, and it's not decent to say it now that he's dead and all, but I hoped he'd meet another girl and file for divorce. Anyway his boss at work made him come in one evening after hours and informed him in confidence that his pay would be almost halved just like that from the next month. The boss said it was because he had a bad attitude, my husband told me. He told me stuff over webcam – we talked once a week – Tuesdays at six _[I've seen worse marriages then]_. He said not to worry, he had the problem in hand. I felt so helpless over here because I strongly suspected he was planning something awful. Like it was all on telly but really happening and there was nothing I could do. I couldn't influence his actions or decisions any more than the next person, and I couldn't go to the police on what they would see as a vague suspicion.

I only heard the exact details after Sherlock got involved, but apparently he'd tracked his boss's movements and hacked into his email account _[He wasted his talents. He'd have made a rare detective]_. He got himself a little gang: The boss was not a generally popular person. He was fond of night fishing, so one night my husband followed him on an excursion to a lake on a state-owned piece of land.

Two days later on the world news – The Mystery Drowning. A body was found face down in that same lake. No marks, no nothing. But the water where he was found was only twenty centimetres deep. This was two nights after my husband had told me he had the matter in hand: I knew I was right. The news article gave the date of the find and the man's job and workplace, so I checked the company's website. When the man was named I googled him and after ploughing through the other murder news articles I found out about his life story. I was right – that man was the boss my husband had mentioned _[An obvious sequence of detection but not bad for a normal person]_.

The police and coroner concluded the death was accidental – that the man had got his feet tangled in the abundant weeds and had fallen and hit his head on a rock _[They're all idiots – I calculated that the man would have had to be over eight feet tall to do that]. _And I knew it…I just _knew _my husband was behind it _[SH: See? I was right about a woman's instinct]_. But how to get the evidence? I knew my husband's history, that he couldn't stop at one. More would follow, on a bigger and bigger scale. I was the only person in the world who could fill in the missing pieces and stop an epic tragedy.

I went to Sherlock with all the evidence I could lay my hands on _[Always a wise move]_. Who knows how many lives he saved getting that evil man what he deserved? I wish I could say I collaborated with him _[She practically did]_, but I could only help in a few minor details _[She spent all her waking hours for two weeks gathering evidence and tracing potential witnesses as well as poring for hours over the case reports]._ Still I like to think I made some difference _[Getting to the correct solution would have been very much less elegant and efficient without her input]_. My husband was executed two years later on the strength of Sherlock's _[On the strength of OUR] _evidence and his arguments.

My husband was undoubtedly the most evil man I knew. Sherlock describes himself as a high functioning sociopath. Well he most certainly isn't one – and I don't care how strongly he disagrees with me! But if I have learned anything important from all my experiences it is this: Killing people can be as addictive as any drug, but so can saving them. And in the latter respect I am proud, proud, PROUD to be the landlady (and often the unofficial housekeeper) of two of the most addicted tenants known to man _[Group hug! Not bad for her first blog attempt, eh?]_.


	4. Email reply from Sherlock to Mycroft

_-/-/-/-/-/-/-No Incoming Viruses Detected-/-/-/-/-_

FROM: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

TO: Mycroft Holmes **m_hol&Whit-gov,ac,uk**

CC:

BCC:

SUBJECT: Re: Sherlock

_Dearest _brother-mine,

I read, with the _utmost _delight, your charming email to my faithful flatmate, John Watson. Oh yes – his email password isn't exactly the hardest in the world to deduce…again. And did you seriously think it would never cross my mind that people might try and get to me through John? Let's just say I'm a regular precautionary visitor to his account. I'll spare you the details.

Funny how you claim that you care so _very_ much about me, and that you were worried about John associating himself with me in case he pushed my danger-lust over the edge; yet you take the Bruce-Partington plans to _him_ with the thought that he might persuade me to look at themwhen I refused to do so in your presence. It seems that for all your _care _you're willing to put me, John, Mrs Hudson and indeed the whole country at risk by sending texts containing top secret information (which could easily be intercepted by someone of far lower intelligence than either of us) to a man who – let's face it – can be extraordinarily scatterbrained. For example, he used to have a psychological limp…until he left his cane in a café. A cane that time, sure…but it _could_ have been his phone – with your top secret texts on it and all my contact details!

Oh, and don't you come back at me with that old argument – 'You're so aggressive, can't we lay our differences aside, we should be on the same side, Sherlock and blah de blah de blah…' You could be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived, and you know it as well as I. But instead you sit on your backside all day every day at Pall Mall or Whitehall and make eyes at the prime minister, in your oh-so-humble, oh-so-modest 'minor position in the British Government'. And all around you people are being murdered, robbed, abducted…how canyou read and hear about all those crimes and the threats of those to come, and sit there and do _nothing_? Remember that man in Piccadilly – the starving one being tortured? You could have solved that in a quarter of the time it took me, but no – you left the case to fester for a week and then tipped off Lestrade, who _eventually _called me in after making every possible blunder first. And by the time I got to the crime scene it was too late – he died just as we got him out.

Be a good brother for once: Drop the over-protectiveness and stop running to John whenever I refuse to do your bidding. I mean putting some cases before John may be useful in showing him a few methods of deduction and detection, but he refused your money back then, so why do think he would work for you now?

You don't scare me Mycroft, and you certainly won't induce in me anything in the way of brotherly duty or regret for past times. Give it up.

Sherlock xox

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_Sent yesterday at 04:28:10 GMT (BST)_


	5. John H Watson's Halloween Prank

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

I've got to get this blog out quickly while Sherlock's away. But that was some of the best fun I have _ever _had – and for once Sherlock had to concede that I had one up on him…I have the video to prove it. Halloween. My flatmate is the least superstitious person I've ever met. He is grounded firmly in the real world (with the surprising exception of his belief-tinged agnosticism), and so I knew a Halloween practical joke would be difficult to pull.

I had been trying to think of something to do for some time. Anything involving pulleys, wires, messages or costumes was out of the question; he'd be looking for them and he goes through my stuff at four am. On Halloween morning I spent a dejected quarter of an hour over breakfast. Sherlock tripped into the room in unusually good spirits. "Morning!" he called cheerfully. "Can't stop I'm afraid – urgent chemical analysis and my phone alarm misbehaved – I have to get there for nine or it won't be valid…" with that he exited, banging the door unintentionally in his hasty exuberance.

"Dear me – he's in awful hurry," said Mrs Hudson as she bustled in with a toaster – we had asked her if we could borrow a replacement, as the one we had cut out dramatically, almost electrocuting Sherlock. Besides, she liked to check on us from time to time – so would you if you us for tenants. She was wearing a witch's hat but apart from that she was dressed normally. "What is it today then, the morgue or the lab?"

"The lab I think. Well at least he said he had…" I stopped suddenly, and the most brilliant idea flashed into my mind. It was outrageous, horrible, probably impossible – but _brilliant _nonetheless. "Mrs Hudson thank you…you have saved my Halloween!" I told her, patting her arm, grabbing my coat and phone and rushing out the door.

I texted Mike Stamford: "Where is Sherlock right now?"

His reply came within a few minutes; "Intent upon his analysis – the upstairs labs."

"How long will he be?"

"At least another two hours."

"Meet me in the basement then – and keep it secret from him if you can."

Thirty minutes later I explained my plan to Mike. He chuckled and rubbed his hands. "It's breaking every rule in the laboratory," he assured me, "But there's a stiff up there who knew Sherlock and was always trying and failing to get one up on him. I think he'd have been pleased to help out."

"Good good!"

"Besides with Sherlock everything's an exception to the rule. Better still, he performed a small experiment on the guy – Stanley Johnson was his name – that involved cutting off a few toes."

"Even better – that'll do nicely!"

Mike glanced at his watch. "If his experiment goes to plan you'll have an hour or so to get set up – I can arrange transport. Mind you it's a risk I'm taking. You've got to promise me one thing – promise that you'll video this. Alright?"

"I'll do my best," I replied.

I only just got the camera set up in time in Sherlock's bedroom – hidden among a pile of his dirty laundry (he always leaves that until the very last minute, despite managing to cultivate an immaculate appearance to the world). When he has no case on – or none that can be investigated out-with the laboratory, he invariably changes into his dressing gown upon coming home. I had taken the precaution of doing a recce prior to contacting Mike. From this I learned that his dressing gown was hung in his wardrobe. Dressed in black and with my head covered by a black scarf Mrs Hudson had lent me, I waited in the large walk-in wardrobe (the wardrobe had come as furniture with the flat), with Stanley propped up in front of me.

Thankfully I only had a few minutes to wait – I heard Sherlock's key in the door, and then the turning of the bedroom doorknob. He was in good spirits, bustling around the room humming some classical tune that I wasn't familiar with. His footsteps approached me and I tensed. The door opened a crack and with a roar I sprang out, brandishing Stanley before me.

Never before or since have I heard such a yell of mingled surprise and horror as the one Sherlock gave. He leapt backwards, arms thrown across his face, stumbled and fell. I dumped Stanley on a chair and burst out laughing, so hard I couldn't speak for several minutes. I found that my legs wouldn't hold me and dropped onto the bed. I could vaguely hear Sherlock getting up, angrily shouting something about heart attacks, nightmares and revenge, before gaining some control over myself. It was then that he started to see the funny side, smiled, chuckled, giggled and finally broke into a hearty peal, which set me off again, and for a short while we were both quite unable to do anything. Finally we came to a spluttering halt and he flopped down on the bed beside me, quite exhausted.

"O-ouch…" he said finally, rubbing his sides.

"You know…I've videoed…the whole thing?" I told him, catching my breath at last. "I'm going to post it on the blog!"

"You're not serious!" his eyes widened in dismay – "What about him?" he jerked his thumb at Stanley, who was still lolling on the chair looking at the ceiling. "We'll get the whole laboratory into trouble! In fact…" he leapt up and scanned the room. "It's gotta be here somewhere," he muttered, ransacking the room. It didn't take him long. He ripped the video out from the recorder and held it above his head. "Take that back about putting it on the blog!" he told me. I lunged, but he caught me in an arm-lock. "Take it back," he urged severely.

"Fine, fine I won't publish the video on the blog. Happy?"

"That's better," he said, handing me back the video.

It was then that we heard Mrs Hudson's footsteps outside the room. "Quick quick quick!" hissed Sherlock, and together we heaved Stanley up, stuffed him into the wardrobe and stood side by side, backs against the wardrobe doors, just as Mrs Hudson entered. "What's all the noise about you two – oh look at your faces! Something's been going on in here – you're the picture of guilt." She swept a glance round the room and looked long and hard at the wardrobe, then away again as she changed the subject. Either she'd decided her suspicions were unfounded or, more likely, she had wisely made up her mind that she just didn't want to know.

"How did the experiment go?"

I gave a guilty start. "E-experiment?"

"You know…Sherlock's experiment – at the laboratory!"

"Oh yeah …THAT experiment," said Sherlock shiftily. He forced a nonchalant grin. "Well…er…yeah, really well thanks." He paused and cocked his ear. "That the phone?"

Mrs Hudson listened, "Oh yes – thanks dear…better dash!" With that she hurried from the room.

"Saved by the bell," remarked Sherlock, relaxing visibly.

We got Stanley back to the morgue in Mike Stamford's car (which gave me a chance to discreetly give the video to him to burn onto disk). It was simple enough – we just put Stanley in a position with his head below his body for a few minutes to give him a pinkish tinge, then placed him in the back seat with one of those inflatable neck pillows on, and took him in through the back door under a bed sheet on a borrowed stretcher. Sherlock assumed his sternest mask and most business-like manner, and nobody asked any questions.

The rest of Halloween was uneventful, but several weeks later a disk arrived through the post with my name on it. The return address was that of Mike Stamford. He and I still use the incident (and the video, which is backed up on an unmarked memory stick and accessible only by password) to blackmail Sherlock when he gets too unbearable to work with.


	6. John H Watson, November 5th

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

"So," said Sherlock, glancing up from his laptop, "You and Sarah. What's up?"

"What, er…nothing. Why?" My eyelids had begun to droop but they had snapped open at this comment. I was surprised and immediately suspicious: Sherlock didn't usually show interest in my love life, and the last time he _had _done, had he tricked us into coming on an investigation that ended with Sarah and me bound and gagged with a one-ton weight descending towards her, and a Chinese woman threatening me because she thought that I was Sherlock Holmes. Yes, on the whole I had legitimate reason to be suspicious.

"Well I got this text from you – 'Love to but I solemnly promised Sherlock I'd go with him on an investigation. You go. I'll make it up to you I really will.' "

He narrowed his eyes at me. "The only other person close to you that you would have to 'make it up to' in the informal sense is Sarah. She asked you to go somewhere and you declined. You told her to go without you. Women never go to things alone and even if they did it would be the height of rudeness on your part if you suggested she went alone when it was obvious she had nobody to go with. Which means you knew she'd definitely find someone else to go with. Obviously you didn't mean a date, but a friend or family member. Something everybody is going to anyway then, judging by the short notice you gave her, and given the date today she in all probability asked you to come to the Embankment fireworks display.

"We don't have an investigation to go to – you lied – so either you're angry with her or you're hiding something. I know you when you're angry, you get hopping mad – literally bouncing on your toes like when you got that ASBO, and you invariably have a bit of a rant, usually to me. You didn't do that when you came in today, therefore you are not angry. When you're shocked or your feelings have been hurt you tend to go very quiet and glassy-eyed, and you've been chatting away as normal most of the afternoon, therefore there is no friction between the two of you. You mentioned an early night and a DVD so you're not doing anything special – nothing worth hiding about, therefore no moral digression, so something you're embarrassed about."

"You know, sometimes I wish there was a law against unauthorised observation and deduction. How the hell did you get that text anyway?" I scrolled through my phone messages. "Slip of the finger", I sighed, "Sarah – Sherlock. The only two S entries…" I thumped my leg in annoyance. "From now on you're 'Holmes' in the phone book…"

"Holmes? Oh please! Imagine if I changed your entry to 'Watson'! Be more careful in the future when entering the number, that's all."

"Thank you for your input."

Sherlock had sunk back into scrutinising me. "_Why _would you be embarrassed? All you're doing is watching a fireworks display and she's probably already seen you naked. Not that you'd be naked at a fireworks display. At least I hope not. You were going to have to meet her parents perhaps? No no, you'd have met them by now…so why are you embarrassed?"

"Um…I'm still here, Sherlock."

"Never mind…what can be embarrassing about fireworks…oh!" his eyes widened and he stared at me. I dropped my gaze. "Ohhh, that's it, isn't it! Pocky-Face – when I was making him I whipped out the gun and you clapped your hands over your ears…" He frowned. "But you've been in war and war is full of bangs. You use a gun yourself! You _like _the war – you're a soldier!"

"Wait – no Sherlock. I don't likeit, I'm _addicted _to it, and I'm addicted to it _despite _the bangs and the killing. I don't particularly want to add any more reminders of gunfire to my home life."

"Ah well."

He rose from his chair without a word and disappeared from the room.

"Peace at last!" I sighed, leaning my head back and flicking on the TV to a daytime talk show. I closed my eyes, waiting for the adverts to finish and the program to begin.

"John? John?" Sherlock's voice broke the silence, and I felt my shoulder being shaken. I snapped my head up, winced and rubbed my neck. The TV remote had slipped from my fingers onto the floor, allowing a battery to fall out. "Uh? What? What is it, a case?"

"No, you've been asleep for ages, assuming you switched over to the game show immediately after I left and fell asleep straight away – hardly surprising really if you did – they're so predictable." He held up the radio times, which was ear-marked on today's page and had a small stab of biro ink at the game show's details.

"It's getting dark outside. I've been at the lab and a garden shop."

"A _garden _shop?"

"Yes. And I've been over at Sarah's." He looked at me sideways. For a moment my brain raced in incomprehension and indignation. This must have registered in my expression, because that tight but genuine smile flashed across Sherlock's face by means of reassurance. "Don't worry…I was only inviting her round to spend the evening at Baker Street."

Could I have heard correctly? He gestured rather grandly to a box on the table. "Entertainment for the evening!"

I approached the box with trepidation mixed with mounting curiosity. Smiling, Sherlock pulled out several differently shaped cardboard objects, each crudely sealed with some kind of glue, with a piece of waxed string protruding and labelled with marker pen: "Fizzer," "Blue Whirl," "Screaming eels," "Moriarty's revenge" and a couple of others.

"The Moriarty one is the crowning glory," he declared, thrusting his hands into his pockets and smiling at my expression. "Well?"

"What are these?" I asked incredulously.

"What do you think? Fireworks that don't go bang! I made them. They're the only ones of their kind."

"You _made _them!"

"From scratch – in the laboratory today. Well I thought they'd be better than the old Sparklers. I had to be careful not to get caught. After all, gunpowder probably breaks a few health and safety regulations. I couldn't believe you'd happily give up an entertaining evening off with Sarah. It was an interesting challenge for me, and besides I owe you a favour for your help in the Moriarty case."

"And – and the garden store?"

"Some safety equipment, and ear defenders for you. There'll be bangs from other displays. Red suits you," he said, tossing them over to me.

"Thank you, fashion guru."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Sarah, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and I gathered on the lawn, huddled in many layers to keep out the icy nip. I was wearing the ear defenders, and any bangs sounded muffled and distant. Sherlock was wearing a visor and his usual gloves. "Stand with your backs against the wall," he said, and we did as we were told.

"Are you sure this is going to be safe?" Sarah whispered to me.

"Nope," I whispered back, and grinned.

"She's lit! Stand by for The Fizzer," Sherlock yelled, and I saw the dim, flickering yellow light of a match. A second later there was almighty WHOOSH! And a jet of green light shot high into the air, before turning into a haze from which crackling stars winked, before it faded into blackness.

"And now…The Fishing Net!"

When Sherlock lit this one a second jet shot into the sky, but this time fiery trails of red smoke criss-crossed over each other in the sky, creating a striped, net-like impression that slowly faded once again.

"The Screaming Eels!"

Several multi-coloured jets shot high into the sky with a piercing whistles, before corkscrewing rapidly and vanishing.

"The Sprites!"

There were several of these which Sherlock had set up in a line. He lit them one after the other so that when they ascended into the air it was in a Mexican wave. They rose more slowly and expanded into hazy coloured orbs. Sarah was transfixed.

"Blue whirl!"

This was essentially a Catherine Wheel that made a noise like a racing car crossing the start line and shot out electric blue sparks from its sides as it spun, before dimming and slowing, and finally stopping.

"Lastly…Moriarty's revenge..."

We waited with baited breath. With a shrieking noise a red jet of light arced into the sky and split into two fizzing meteor-like objects, which floated down like ribbons before slowly going out.

It may have just been me but there was something…uncomfortable – almost ominous – about that last firework. It was Sherlock standing in front of us with a torch, eyes sparkling, lips pressed into a hard line of pride and expectancy as if to say 'What did you think?' that shook us from our musings. Mrs Hudson broke into applause. "Bravo!"

He bowed, flushing with pleasure.

"Er that was…" I said, but I couldn't think of any suitable adjectives.

"That was…" echoed Sarah, and then she grabbed me by the ear-defenders and kissed me on the mouth, and I was kissing her back, barely aware of Sherlock's groan of disapproval as he walked away, hands held up in protest…

"Well…" said Sherlock later. "I ruined your first date with Sarah but dazzled you both on another. Positive and negative cancel out. I'm back to square one."

"Yup, I suppose so," I conceded.

"Good," said he, and opened his laptop, his face as cold and set as ever.

"What are you doing now?"

"Case."

"Oh?"

"Mycroft. Phone…" he held out his hand in expectation. "_Quickly_."

"Alright alright I'm getting it!"

"Now. These _exact _words…"


	7. John H Watson, November 10th

_**Posted by John H Watson**_

10th November

Having scrolled through Sherlock's blogs I can to some degree understand why he refuses to care about people. But what will he do tomorrow? The world stops for two minutes of pure caring, but crime continues. Two minutes is long enough to detonate a bomb, shoot ten people, hang someone, break a person's neck, poison somebody, crash a car, torch a house…the list goes on.

But it's also long enough to analyse a pair of trainers, deduce that a painting is false, decipher a hidden message, examine a crime scene in minute detail, call out a warning send a text, resuscitate a person.

I am sure Sherlock's reasoning would therefore be: 'Criminals don't stop and neither should we.'

There is something to be said for that attitude, but thing is…I'm not sure if I_ can_ just carry on as though nothing is different. Having served in the army myself remembrance day carries a weight for me that I doubt Sherlock would understand, not least because he shuts out everything that he considers unimportant. I've never been the sort to have close friends - more like acquaintances; and I'm not one for dwelling on what has passed. But if I chose to I could easily reel off thirty names of people I knew that gave their lives trying to make Afghanistan a better place. People such as Deborah Wright, who was engaged to be married and who organised football matches between the soldiers in between the skirmishes. She came out of her tent one morning and was fatally shot in the head.

Or Judson Hayes – who had nerves of steel, an iron constitution, an eagle eye, razor sharp intellect and intuition...and a gentle, positive outlook in the face of suffering, such as I have not seen before or since. He picked his way across a minefield to rescue some of our soldiers who had been taken hostage and tortured, and escorted them all to safety. Unfortunately a misguided, panicking civilian threw a broken bottle at him, which cut him and caused aggressive tetanus. By the time they got him to me for treatment it was much too late, despite my best efforts. Such irony is senseless to me.

And Jonathan Turner who had just turned nineteen. He was brought to me to be treated for burn injuries as the result of being in the near vicinity of a particularly violent explosion. We got chatting and I found out that he had learned the clarinet in school, like me. He had been in the school orchestra, and had progressed to grade 7 and planned to take grade 8 when he came home. The day before he got leave the building that had been used as a treatment facility was blown up. Half of it was reduced to rubble – the half with Jonathan Turner's bed in.

Then there' Adam Weldon, Scarlett MacRae, Oliver Fisher, Jordan Christie, Tariq Hart, Mark Cumberland, Billy Moon, Steven Forbes, Emily Wilkins…

Those are just a selection of the people I came into contact with who never went home. And then there were the civilians, who had just as bad a time of it – often worse. At the time I was much too absorbed in the action to give them much notice. Even now I barely look back, but at times like this you just can't help it. Before I joined the army remembrance day was a hazy, distant thing for people long gone, that didn't affect me in any tangible way. That's what it will probably seem like to Sherlock. That is, if he even registers its occurrence at all. But now - and for the rest of my life - it is for people I _knew_; people I treated and worked with. It could well have been for me too in another universe.

No: This time I don't care what Sherlock says or does. I_ cannot_ let remembrance day pass unnoticed, I refuse to.


	8. The Diamond Bullet  November 11th

_**Posted by John H Watson**_

November 11th

THE DIAMOND BULLET

To my surprise, I awoke to see the figure of Sherlock Holmes standing over me, silhouetted in the light from the landing. "Get up John," he told me, "Get dressed quickly – The Game is afoot!"

We took a taxi out to Trafalgar, to the crime scene. It was a large hotel, and an angry manager was demanding to know when his establishment could be re-opened. "I have a meeting booked for half eleven and some of the richest men in Europe will be there! Think of the ruin – the reputation of the hotel! If you lose me the biggest break in my career I'll sue! I swear I will sue! I'll take you all for every penny you've got!" Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and a few subordinates were waiting for us. I saw Lestrade roll his eyes and attempt to explain the situation again to the manager.

"Ah, here's the Freak's and his freaky colleague!" Sergeant Donovan said, looking me up and down with the same expression one might wear as they viewed some kind of slug. Because I had refused time and again to dissociate myself from Sherlock she'd decided I was 'another of his kind.'

We followed Lestrade and the manager (who still looking flustered and panicky, but had somewhat calmed down and realised it was in his best interests to cooperate) to an upstairs hotel room where the bodies had been found by the chamber maid. "Odd case this one – a double murder," Lestrade informed us as we walked. "Their skulls appear to have been burst open, but the door was locked and we can find no traces of an intruder."

"Tracks, surely?"

"Nothing."

"Then you've missed something."

"Well obviously, Sherlock, or you wouldn't be here. They've been identified as Sandra Richardson – a dancer steadily building a reputation. And Douglas Johnston – a banker from the Covent Gardens."

Before we entered, Sherlock indicated a small card hanging from the outside door handle of the hotel room. "What's this?"

"Wake-up-call card," the hotel manager said, shrugging sadly. His frustration and hurried manner had departed now that he was at the scene of the tragedy, and he appeared to be deeply moved. Sherlock pocketed the wake-up card and we entered the room. It certainly was unusual. The victims lay on the floor of the double-bedded hotel room. Despite the blood I could see that Douglas Johnston had a few grey hairs streaking through his dark crop. But he was in good shape physically and I could see why a young girl might become infatuated. He was lying face down on top of Sandra Richardson, obscuring her somewhat from view, but I could see her pale limbs and a few wisps of flyaway blonde hair spread out to the side. Douglas Johnston's head was a complete mess, with a gaping, raggedy hole in the back in the centre, about an inch above the ears in height. His hair was matted with copious amounts of semi-clotted blood. "We got his organiser. It's password protected though…" Sherlock didn't answer. Gently he turned the man over, and I saw that the woman's forehead underneath was ripped apart in a similar way to the back of the man's head, a couple of centimetres above the bridge of her nose. Her face had been badly mutilated by the force of the blast. A vast amount of blood was pooled on the hotel floor. Sherlock lifted the woman's head slightly and her hair was sticky against the floor. I turned away with a groan. "Standing," muttered Sherlock to himself, "I thought so."

Impassive as ever Sherlock's gaze travelled to a point behind, beside and below Lestrade's left shoulder. "Ah!" he exclaimed. He stepped irreverently over the bodies, crossed the room and picked a bullet out of the lower half of the door frame. It was embedded so superficially that it basically fell into his hand. Sherlock held it up to a light and scrutinised it. "Diamond," he remarked, whistling, "Streamlined yet jagged. The cerebral blood vessels didn't stand a chance. Lestrade, have their been any reported robberies of a diamond?"

"There was the one but…"

"…Solved. Returned. Irrelevant." Sherlock waved his free hand impatiently. "Interesting, that…" He pocketed the bullet, wandered over to the open French windows (which led out onto a balcony), and examined the railing, as well as the table, and then leaned far over the balcony and looked down the sheer drop to the car park below. I placed a hand on his arm, afraid he might fall but he just shrugged me off.

It was then that I caught the faint tones of Big Ben. I glanced at my clock. It was 11. I was going to motion to Sherlock to stop, but to my great surprise he had already straightened up and was standing silent and motionless, eyes closed, head bowed. I lowered my own head and closed my eyes.

Like a video montage, images played in my mind of my friends in the army – those dead, those missing and those (I assumed) still serving. Memories of my own efforts – of holding back a surge of people – I couldn't even tell if they were friends or foes but it didn't matter – because people were falling, being trampled underfoot and blood flowing – I was sick of blood – and I didn't even care who they were any more – they were human beings and that was good enough for me and then being hemmed in on all sides and feeling the air squeezed from me as I tried to drag people from the crowd, and thinking 'Please God let me live...' And then coming to and finding myself being hauled out from the terrified throng, with a crushing pain in my leg, and more troops arriving to break up the skirmish…

And two men I had been talking to earlier that day…Steven Forbes had gone down and Mark Cumberland was comatose (he would later slip away too), and endeavouring to pick up the pieces…

"John?" It was Sherlock's quiet, measured voice, and spindly fingers on my shoulder that brought me back from that nightmarish place. I opened my eyes. For a moment I saw something in those grey eyes; some inward expression, working under that impenetrable mask. Then as I shook my head and the memories faded, his face set into steely concentration once more.

"The killer was a woman; you can see from the mark of the shoe on the balcony railing and also on the table – those shoes are a female brand. The empty glasses mean the murdered couple had a drink and then went in. Douglas Johnston stood with his back to the window and was facing Sandra Richardson and kissing her when the assassin fired. It's the only explanation for the trajectory of the bullet – the wounds on them both line up perfectly, like a tunnel. But then it must have been an _immensely _powerful weapon, controlled with deadly accuracy, to put a bullet clean through both their heads and even then embed itself in the wall…" He made a steeple with his fingers, and the keen eyes took on that abstracted, far-away look which I knew meant he was giving the problem every ounce of his concentration.

"But...but to embed that far down the door frame – if it was fired out here…"

"It was fired diagonally downwards from a height, obviously," Sherlock muttered impatiently. "But why? And _how?_" he knelt and scanned the concrete floor of the balcony. He stiffened. "Ohhhh…" he whispered.

"What?"

I started – I hadn't realised Lestrade had been behind me. Sherlock stood up. His cheeks had flushed, his eyes, far from being vacant were now sparkling, and he was beginning to hyperventilate as he sometimes did when profoundly excited. When he spoke it was in the rushed, jerky manner he used when he talked as he deduced.

"She made the mistake of putting her foot on the railing and the table, but she was clever enough to imagine that any traces on the ground would be picked up immediately by forensics." He wheeled round and passed back through the French windows, dropped to his knees again and crawled along the floor to the hotel door, before stranding up. "As I thought," he remarked, "No tracks on any floor…"

"…That's what I _said_!"

"…And no evidence of climbing up from below, I checked. Now we know everything that _didn't _happen, there's only one thing that _could _have happened. Our killer dropped down from the next floor up." He darted out onto the balcony again and leaned with his back against the railing, gazing intently up at the window above. This did not have its own balcony – the French windows and balconies were arranged in rows on alternate floors of the hotel.

"Yes…" he murmured and his hand stole into his pocket and drew out the bloodied diamond bullet. He then looked up and a slow smile spread across his face.

"Well?" I asked, and this seemed to jolt him back to Earth.

"Well." He repeated. "Lestrade! Find out who was in the room above this one last night! Anderson! You can take the bodies away – you won't learn anything else from them. As for us…we're going upstairs!" He rubbed his hands and, stirring up a perceptible breeze behind him, swept out of the room.

"Think you're so clever, Freak?" Sally Donovan was jogging beside Sherlock, whose brows were knitted together and whose face was stony as he stared straight ahead. We turned down a side corridor and then started up a spiral staircase. She persisted: "You're not God. One of these days you'll slip up. Then what will you do, hmmm?" Sherlock's head snapped round and his eyes blazed for a second. "Can you do better?" he hissed. If Sally Donovan had a retort she didn't dare to utter it.

We reached the door of the upstairs hotel room, and of course it was locked. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the wall as we waited. A minute passed and the incessant drumming grew louder and louder until I could stand it no longer. "Sherlock!" I burst out eventually, and he lapsed into morose inaction. Finally the manager, puffing, arrived having procured the key and let us in. For a second Sherlock examined the inner door handle with his magnifying lens.

"The woman's name was Ms Manon Perrier," volunteered the manager.

Sherlock's reaction to this piece of information was startling. "YES!" He punched the air with his clenched fist.

"She left early this morning…"

"And when she arrived did she say what brought her to the hotel?"

"She mentioned something about a performance."

"A circus performance yes…" As he spoke Sherlock's attention was focussed on his phone, and his fingers tapped madly as he scrolled through pages of information.

"Striking appearance?"

"Very beautiful. A wonderful figure. Well toned, you might say."

"I thought as much. Lestrade, give me Johnston's organiser, I need to check his diary."

"But it's password protected…"

"Oh please, I'm Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade hesitated, then acquiesced. "Now go and arrest her on suspicion – no, on a _charge _– of murder. Oh, and search the house for a rope – about nine feet in length, possibly with intermittent knots but not necessarily. And bring me her shoes. Oh, and if you find a gun of unique design and insanely high power get that too, but I don't suppose you will if she's bright enough not to leave tracks on the floor or walls." Lestrade lingered, trying to assimilate the instructions he had been given. "GO!" He departed hastily.

Sherlock pocketed his phone, threw open the window and fingered a small furrow on the ledge. He motioned me to come over. "See this?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"It was cut by a taut rope. She must have tied it to the door-handle – the paintwork's newly chipped."

"But how do you know it's recent?"

"Because I know she climbed down using a rope and I know that if anybody else had done the same thing at any time I would be able to read it in the woodwork of the window frame."

"Yes but how do you know she climbed…"  
"Research, John!" He held up his phone by way of explanation.

"You do know how incredibly improbable that is..."

"…But it's the only explanation that fits the facts. And it's only about ten feet from the window ledge to the balcony – child's play for a circus performer, say. She waited and watched as the couple had their drink and when they went inside she climbed down the rope using her hands. She must have had the weapon strapped to her back or something – you'd need both hands free for such a feat. The rope would have put her onto the railing and from there she stepped onto the table, where she squatted and aimed at the kissing couple. Having completed her deed she managed to climb back up, pull the rope in through the window and stow it away, before leaving the hotel." Sherlock turned to the manager. "What time did she check out?"

"Four in the morning," said the hotel manager, shaking his head in wonderment.

"That pretty much matches the time the murder was committed, judging by the coagulation of the blood, would you agree John?"

"Oh…er, yes. About then."

"And the alarm was raised sometime after seven…" he produced the wake-up call card from his pocket with a flourish.

"Brilliant," I remarked, and Sherlock's eyes flicked towards me for an instant.

"Obvious," he said.

"And the motive?" I asked. Lestrade, Sherlock and I sat in a disused meeting room, Lestrade taking notes. He had arrested Miss Perrier and found the rope and the shoes but not the gun, just as Sherlock had predicted. Sherlock had then questioned Miss Perrier alone in her cell. At first she had refused to speak, but when he described her actions in minute detail, she saw there was no point in trying to deny the events. He now relayed his findings to us.

"Manon Perrier is a French circus performer who specialises in ropes and the trapeze. Her husband – her _ex-_husband, was Douglas Johnston, who was an unsung millionaire if you can believe it. He bought her a gigantic diamond as an engagement present. They married in 1999 and enjoyed nearly nine years of uninterrupted bliss, or so we are led to believe. He was very involved in his wife's career – funding all her expenses and attending the performances and rehearsals. He must've got bored though, because he fell in love with a young, blonde actress – Ellie Lee. I looked her up – she was a dancer just like Sandra Richardson. It was easy for Mr Johnston, who was so involved in the planning and scheduling of his wife's days, to arrange times to be alone with Miss Lee. It's all there in his organiser.

"But finally she discovered them together. They resolved it discreetly and he broke off the affair and swore to be faithful. From then on the subtle psychological manipulation of his wife's life became craftier than ever. Then just recently Manon Perrier found that her husband was cheating on her again with another young, blonde dancer – Sandra Richardson. This time some fierce passion of the artist, previously restrained by the knowledge – or delusion – of her husband's love for her, caused her to snap. In her mind he would get what he deserved and as a bonus it occurred to her that she could take advantage of his massive life insurance. So she had her diamond cut into the shape of a bullet. That's why there was never a report of a robbery – there never _was _a robbery. What better way to wreak revenge on him than with his own gift to her? The cuttings were pawned and with the money she commissioned a monster of a gun to be made. She then waited for her opportunity, tracked her quarry and his current object of lust to the hotel and, taking a rope with her, booked in on the floor above. It was ideal – she could watch them on the balcony and wait for her opportune moment. That's what she did. We know the rest."

"Well…all I can say is that between you and me I'll never get my head round you and your methods," said Lestrade, looking briefly up as he wrote. He wore an expression of annoyance mingled with admiration.

"The credit belongs completely to you on this one of course," said Sherlock, smiling. "Keep me out of it – the successful completion of this case is its own reward."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock Holmes lounged on the sofa in his dressing gown, half asleep. I picked up my book. The fire crackled in the grate. The wind battered outside. It was dusk. It was ambient. "An elegant case," Sherlock remarked without opening his eyes. "Don't you think so?"

"Hmm," I grunted in reply.

He sat up and continued thoughtfully: "I've never acknowledged remembrance day before. I thought that since criminals didn't stop I shouldn't either."

I grinned inwardly, remembering my blog of the previous day. "That's what I thought. I'd been determined to do it alone."

"No no no," Sherlock replied quietly. Sincerity stirred behind his blank expression and he hesitated. "It wasn't very nice for you though, was it? Those two minutes. Your hands shook a lot."

"Yes…no…I was….never mind." I sighed. "But, er, why was this time different for you?"

"Well," Sherlock said slowly and quietly, "I don't care about random strangers getting randomly killed in random skirmishes…But I _was_ grateful…" He stopped and turned away very deliberately so that I couldn't see his face. His hands clenched and he was silent. Then he drew breath. "I was grateful that you survived Afghanistan," he muttered abruptly, and with his head bent low he turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen.


	9. Awake and Caseless Ramblings

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

AWAKE AND CASELESS RAMBLINGS: 94 HOURS AND COUNTING. 

Why, when people die, do I get talked at as though _I_ am the one who should be sorry for my actions? I'm the one who drops everything and works all hours to save them! There's nothing wrong with the way I treat corpses either. Most people don't care about inanimate objects and most people handle meat without reverence, and that is all a body is. Respect for the dead is one thing but respect for a body – an empty shell, an object, a husk – is stupid.

In fact caring in general is all very fine and well when you have the time and the energy and the courage, but when lives are at stake action is what is needed, not care, and I am a man of action… How much danger is it acceptable to put John in?

When you learn to ride a horse and you do show-jumping they tell you that if, as you complete a jump, you have not already locked onto the next one you are setting yourself upto lose control of the wholw course..

Eczema is _hell_!

It would be good if there was such a thing as '_like _at first sight'. I could probably manage that at a push.

I wonder what they will do when 2012 comes and the world doesn't end like it didn't in 2000 or 2006? Push the deadline forwards to 2018? Must people always live in fear? No that's ludicrous: If any good comes from such farcical superstition it must be the realisation that nothing is permanent, and that therefore no matter what year it is or when the world is going to end we should live magnificently. That is, conduct our lives in a way that can be universally regarded as magnificent, irrespective of how pleasant or aesthetically pleasing the experience was, and regardless of anybody's personal philosophies. Shut up, brain – why tell them about feelings when the only ones worth talking about can't be expressed?

My mind is like a race car engine tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it is built. Life is commonplace. Crime is commonplace.

Dark is beautiful. Frightening, dangerous places are beautiful: Humans are an embarrassment in their natural habitat going about their mundane lives with their silly little brains, but when they band together to come through a fog of fear and danger and misery they can become beautiful too.

Come quickly, thick fog, – and I shall ascend unto my rightful position.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

BLOG COMMENTS:

Sorry about the soap…please go to bed


	10. The Body Mind Dilemma

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

As a doctor it's always bothered me when people mistreat their bodies. I took an initial laissez-faire approach to Sherlock's various abuses of his physique (e.g. nicotine marathons, stretches of several days without food, night wanderings and the various brawls and injuries that come with his job). However, getting to know him and his habits I can at times see his nerves wearing dangerously thin under the strain, and as a doctor I feel duty-bound to give some kind of admonishment. But Sherlock is masterful and decisive, and as I need to remain his friend for our flat sharing to be bearable, I try to mind my own business. I feel I've got pretty good at gauging when things are going too far and dipping my oar in. Anyway, it's not as if I have the best track record myself!

But there is one particularly childish and needless routine that occurs frequently when Sherlock is hot on a scent. He doesn't appear to be aware that he is doing it, but to the observer it soon becomes blatantly and increasingly obvious. Usually it occurs when Sherlock has been concentrating intensely for several hours. In such a state he loses all track of time, and is insensible to everything except the job in hand. I sometimes think that I could prick him with a pin and he'd not even notice the pain.

The first time I witnessed the routine, Sherlock had been trying to trace the source of certain emails that appeared to be connected to a string of robberies across the city, and piece them into a coherent case. He had been at it all night, hacking into this and that, following up leads or tiny details from the emails, trying to deduce passwords and access email accounts. Mrs Hudson must have looked in as dawn broke, because when I came downstairs she bustled out of the living room. "No use talking to him," she whispered. "He's off in his own world. I haven't got a word out of him this morning except a request for more coffee. Landlady indeed – _housekeeper_ more like. I don't know! I ought to up his rent." She disappeared downstairs.

Cautiously I tiptoed into the living room. "Sherlock?" He was sitting at his desk clad in his dressing gown, exactly as I had left him the night before, engrossed in his work. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and he looked pasty and hollow-eyed.

"Please don't talk – your thoughts are so predictable…" he muttered.

"And good morning to you too."

He gave me the briefest of glances. "If I don't finish this up right here and now I'll lose the trail…" he drummed his fingers on the table, and I noticed a pained, rather impatient expression on his face.

"Not going well?" I commiserated.

"It would go better if I had some silence," he told me, and wriggled. I fetched a bowl of cereal, sat down nearby and watched him work.

He seemed uncharacteristically jumpy and edgy. Now and again he would pause, frown, bite down hard on his lip, drum his fingers and jiggle in his seat for a few seconds. As he worked this restless fidgeting seemed to occur more and more frequently and get steadily worse until he literally couldn't sit still. I had a flashback of Mrs Hudson's words about coffee, and coupled with the fact that he had been firing on all cylinders all night, I started to put two and two together. I am sure that any parent would instantly recognise the signals and scenario that I am describing, and promptly take their child to the required room. But this was Sherlock Holmes – a fully grown, up-and-rising detective, and the longer I waited the less I felt able to intervene. However it eventually became obvious that he was too engrossed to act of his own accord, and action needed to be taken _now_.

"Er…Sherlock?"

He gave an exasperated sigh. "What is it _this _time?" he snapped impatiently.

"How are you feeling?" For a moment he looked confused and irritated, then his brow cleared. "Oh that…I forgot." He squirmed, braced himself, sprang up and dashed out the room. Minutes later he returned looking far more relaxed. "Um – yeah, thanks..." he muttered with a sideways glance and a twitch of the mouth, as he sat back down and resumed his work. I bit back a threatening smile.

After that, whenever I see such signals I call him in on it, and catastrophe is almost always avoided. Anyway it's fine – it's all fine. Part and parcel of sharing rooms with a single minded genius.


	11. Molly Hooper's Piece of Paper

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

On one of our cheerful visits to Bart's hospital morgue, I found a piece of paper trampled into the ground. Thankfully Molly is the only person I have ever come across who draws those little hearts instead of dots on her lower case Is and Js. I had never imagined her to have any real _thoughts _about things as such. I mean she never came across as a particularly deep thinker. Then again many people struggle to express themselves when put on the spot. That's perfectly understandable: We've all clammed up before in the company of someone we admire, but some people more than make up for it with a flair for expression using art. Hidden waters I suppose.

The paper contained a loosely jotted poem, obviously of Molly's own composing; there were crossings out, insertions and annotations. Perhaps it had fallen from her hand or pocket, or off the table, or possibly she had tried to hide it in a hurry. She was very, very reluctant and self-conscious at first, but with gentle persuasion and reassurance she eventually allowed me to share it. And here it is:

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THE WIND by Molly Hooper

It can be a hurricane that knocks you flat

And destroys everything in its path.

Its icy blast can chill you to the bone.

It brings the squall and tempest .

It is:

Unpredictable,

Dangerous,

Frightening,

Crushing,

But it can also come in a gentle breeze, lifting sagging spirits.

It can power nations.

Its warm balm can refresh and rejuvenate.

It can wipe the slate for a day of pure beauty.

It is:

Dynamic,

Magnificent,

Inspiring,

Uplifting.

You can chase it across continents and never catch it.

You can spend a lifetime studying and never understand it.

The breeze, the hurricane:

I love him exactly as he is.

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	12. What a Lovely Thing

**_Posted by John H. Watson_**

"What a lovely thing an egg is," Sherlock said, taking an egg from the box and cupping it in his spindly hand. He walked past the kitchen table, leaned with his back against the window, and held the egg up, gazing down at its tanned, speckled surface with that steely, introspective stare he usually reserved for the minutiae of a crime-scene. It was a new phase in his character to me: I'd never seen him show any keen interest in natural objects before. "Eggs capture everybody's imagination at some point, John," he continued quietly, "There's something there for everyone." He turned it around, frowning thoughtfully.

"There are so many different types of egg. Some for the aristocrat, some for the hunter, some for the bushman and some for the common layperson. They have an astonishing number of uses in cooking: Frying, boiling, hard-boiling, poaching, baking, scrambling, meringues, ice cream, pastries… Their shape – smooth, symmetrical, rounded and tapering off at one end. The random speckles on their shells, like constellations. The unthinking and widespread cruelty too often involved in their mass production. Their pleasing potential for the generation of new life and the connotations they therefore carry of a fragile, yet tangible hope for the future. Their transparency when held up to a bright light – like looking into a different world that science can only allow one to hint at or imagine. Their pungency and buoyancy when rotten – it begs for practical trickery. Their insides, split so preceisely into two distinct components, each totally distinct and opposite from the other. Hatching them is so instinctive to birds and is such a widespread phenomenon, yet it takes an exact and species-specific balance of humidity, temperature and movement to achieve. Not to mention the unique chemical properties of albumin and the astonishing nutritional content of the yolk itself."

"Water's boiling."

Sherlock had fallen into a reverie, with the egg perched between his long fingers. He came to abruptly and, placing the egg on a spoon, lowered it gently into the bubbling saucepan which sat upon the largest ring of our electric cooker. He then did the same for a second egg. Perhaps it was kindness, but more likely a mood of experimentation that had prompted him to cook breakfast for the two of us: He is liable to such fads occasionally.

"When I was in first year at university," Sherlock continued, watching the egg scoot around the bottom of the pan, "I and a couple of other chemistry students – Tony Briggs and Victor Trevor, decided to see how many different ways we could devise to kill an egg."

"Kill an egg?" I repeated, with twitching lips.

"Yes. We got four twelve-egg boxes and divided them up. Then we took our laboratory books and mobile phones and split up for the week. We reconvened the following Monday to discuss notes and compare video footage. It was quite interesting. Tony Briggs tried burning his in acid – that wasn't very good. It just sort of melted away and left a foul smelling curdled mess. Not worth the acid. Hacking one to pieces with an axe proved a bit more entertaining, if messy. He posted the footage on You Tube if you ever want to take a look. It got over twelve thousand views. Pathetic isn't it? People have far too much free time and no imagination. Slowly squashing them underfoot worked well too, as did rolling them down the stairs.

"Victor Trevor actually ate a raw egg whole, shell and all. He said it tasted of nothing in particular, except perhaps a hint of sulphur. I've never had friends but I disapproved of him a bit less than my other contemporaries. He had a pioneering attitude and admirable mental detachment when he so wished. He also tried dropping an egg from the top floor of his block of flats. He was lucky not to get an ASBO actually…the police were called out. It made a hell of a bang and mess when it hit the tarmac. The shell fragments also made several chips in the paintwork of a nearby car. I seem to remember one of the eggs got placed in the doorway and the door was slammed on it as well, and another was flushed down the toilet. There was talk of him trying to gatecrash the sewers to see if it came through the pipes whole, but unfortunately nothing materialised of that idea.

"As for myself, I was the only student whose living room had an open fire in it. I made my egg a nice nest of newspaper and kindling, lit the fire and then set it roaring with the bellows. Eventually there was a loud _pop _and when I raked back the kindling and burning paper I found that the entire wide end of the egg had been blown off. I suppose the air had just expanded so much in the air sack that something had to give. Oddly enough the narrow end lasted quite a long time, until it started oozing stuff and eventually collapsed. I also tried blending one, and hard boiled another and fed it to a pigeon, who actually ate it. Does that count as cannibalism? Well it was a different species of bird I suppose… What else? Threw one at the wall. It made a cheerful yellow smudge. I left the smudge there for all my time I was in those rooms. Then when I eventually tried to scrub it off it had sort of soaked in. Lost me my deposit. I think the stain's still there, if they haven't papered over it, that is. Actually I forgot about the egg experiment notes when we had to hand our laboratory books in for assessment. Nobody ever mentioned them so they can't have minded too much. So there's my egg anecdote. Now it's your turn."

"Er…" I racked my brains, trying to dredge up a memory of something that would match Sherlock's experiences. "Well I…once tried to hatch one?"

"Everyone's done that." Sherlock gestured in an encouraging manner for me to continue.

"Nothing really thrilling…I was six years old. Easter holidays. I made it a nest of grass in a shoebox and put it under my bedside light. My mum just left me to it… I suppose she hoped that if I tried and failed one time it would stop me trying again.

"Anyway, I lost loads of sleep over it; I had to keep the light on all night. I fell asleep in class once and had poster paint smeared all over my face and shirt by my classmates. My mum was not pleased. So the egg sat there for four days until I went off to school one day and came back in the evening to find the light bulb had blown. I tried to save the egg but it was too late: It had gone cold. I think I cried on and off all evening until curiosity got the better of me and I broke the egg into a jug to see if anything had grown inside. Nothing, so I started crying again…stop giggling, Sherlock – it was heart-breaking to me back then!

"Well, my mother's hopes were not to be fulfilled and I tried several more times. Once I put the egg under my pillow and ended up with a sticky mess in the morning. Another time I put it down my trousers and then slipped and fell on the way to school. I once tried to keep it warm in a pan of water over one of the rings on the cooker and forgot about it…you can imagine the result. At last my parents realised that I needed a long term distraction. They bought me a pet rat. It lived for three years. It was called Pickle."

As I finished my anecdote, which Sherlock had been listening to with a mixture of polite amusement and impatience, his watch beeped. "Five minutes…they'll be done now," he exclaimed. "Get the cups ready, John…"

A minute later we were demolishing the boiled eggs, sitting together perched on the sideboard (the table was crammed with chemicals, scientific apparatus, dirty dishes and junk mail). Sherlock dipped a long breadstick into his egg. His view was that it was quicker and easier to get a breadstick out of a box than it was to toast, butter and cut up actual bread.

When he had scraped out all the insides Sherlock turned the shell upside down in the cup. "Egg, John?" he offered sweetly, thrusting the now untouched-looking egg towards me. I brought my spoon down on top of it and Sherlock watched, poker-faced, as it caved in.

"Right…" he said, laying down the egg cup and clapping his hands. "Blackmail. Blackmail, blackmail, blackmail. I love a good old bit of creative blackmail…it's like a combination of chess and gambling with just a hint of call my bluff."

He skipped away to the living room leaving his spoon, egg cup and scraps behind on the sideboard. I sighed and began to clear up, but I really couldn't feel bitter. After all, he _had _eaten. And he _had _slept through the whole night which is practically unheard of. And it wasn't soup on the floor again or an avalanche of fingers from the fridge. Yes…all things considered the day had started surprisingly well.


	13. From Sherlock to Molly

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/_-No Incoming Viruses Detected_-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

FROM: Sherlock Holmes (s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)

TO: Molly Hooper (BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)

CC:

BCC:

SUBJECT: Re: Your Poem

Hello Molly,

John said I should take at least a few minutes to set you straight on some things. We had a bit of a row over it actually – he's out now.

I read your poem: It was very good. I – well – to be honest I didn't clock what it was about until John told me. The thing is, your poem was very subjective and all based on your opinion. I need concrete, tangible data and/or statistics, plus knowledge and experience to observe and deduce, and if I don't have those things I'm just as thick as everyone else - usually thicker. Please don't spread that around – I wouldn't normally say that kind of thing, but I'm trying to be honest, ok? Then when John explained what you meant I didn't believe him. _L__ove_? _Me_! I mean, I knew you looked up to me, but I thought that was just because I'm the best at what I do. He is right, of course: Why else would you accept my methods and manner so completely?

But I think you know really that it would never work. You and me I mean. I'm sorry but I just don't feel that way about you – or anyone. My hard-drive has no room for such distractions, so I don't usually input data on that kind of thing – not for myself at any rate. And if I ever had such software to begin with I permanently deleted it long ago.

I know that this is difficult for you to accept, and it's unfair too because you want so badly for me to be something I'm not, but wanting something badly _cannot _make it a reality, even for me. You just end up twisting facts and/or interpretations of facts, trying to force things to be the way you wish they were. Better to avoid all that and just work exactly and objectively with the hard data. And don't even _pretend_ in your mind that things are different either, even just for a private game: Such a game becomes progressively harder to stop playing, and you get increasingly engrossed in it instead of engaging in the real world. It all leads back again to trying to make what you are pretending become reality, and that feels nice while the game lasts, but one day in the future you stop and realise that you've done nothing in real life, and that will be _incredibly_ painful and make you feel very bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic, so you won't even be able to make something of your life after you've realised that it needs to be turned around, and that in itself will lead to more bitterness. You see, it's a vicious cycle. To do anything useful you _have _to cut out all distractions and approach everything from an objective point of view, and not get attached to anything, anyone or anywhere. That may all sound a bit not good, but again I'm trying to be honest.

I _am_ glad though that you and people like you exist, and also that our professions lead us to cross paths from time to time. You should know that what you enable me to do during cases really does make a big difference. And you should also know that _I _know, and always have, that you're an intelligent person – even though you have trouble believing that yourself. You should stop worrying about coming across badly and making a fool of yourself, really you should. I wouldn't work with you if you were anything less than very, very competent at what you do. After all, only an idiot surrounds himself with idiots! And you're lonely as well and I know how that feels. If you're honest with me and do everything you can to help me, I promise to try and do the same back for you as best as I know how.

That all probably sounded extremely disjointed and odd, but there you go. I've done my best to tell you the exact and literal truth, thorns and all, and not obscure or omit anything. Oh, and one more thing: Please don't get rid of the poem – it's still a good piece of art and I really do appreciate it for that. Keep it, even if it's only to please me.

Anyway, I've got some other things I need to do, so I'm going to stop this email now. I expect we'll bump into each other again at some point on some case in the near future.

Sherlock

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Sent Yesterday at 16:17:25 GMT


	14. Sherlock's Ode to Snow

**_Posted by Sherlock M Holmes: ODE TO SNOW_**

Oh snow,

You fall

In silence

From the clinical sky.

You tell tales

Of crimes,

Light, powdery

Fixer of evidence.

You melt,

Vanishing,

Leaving damp fingertips

Bereft.

Quickly, before

You melt again,

Scoop a handful

Into my mouth.

Clarity bursts

Through brain-freeze,

Sharp, scratchy,

Frosting my tongue.

Gone, cold

Down mouth, throat, stomach.

More…More…

I crave this epiphany.


	15. Email: Molly's Reply to Sherlock's Reply

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FROM: Molly Hooper **(BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

TO: Sherlock Holmes **(s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**)  
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Your Poem

CC:

BCC:

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Sherlock,

You haven't got a clue. There's no rhyme, reason or formula to why I would…love you. It's not because I think you love _me_, or anything you've done or anything, if that's what you think, so it's not like you can disappoint me. It's just because – well – if you like, because of your 'Sherlock-ish-ness'. If such a thing depended on anything you had or hadn't done, rest assured I'd've got over you long ago. So because it doesn't depend on anything, I'm the only person who can say whether it's real or fake, and I know there's nothing that could change it.

Molly.

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_Sent today at 18:11:25 GMT_


	16. John's Bubble Bath

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

John likes to take baths. Very long (timed them), hot (no more hot water left afterwards), deep (traces of a waterline on the side of the bath), bubbly (they still cling to the plughole and rim) baths, early in the morning. _(JW: If there is a quiet hour – and sometimes there is in the morning – I use it to relax in order to stay sane. I could be kidnapped and tied to a chair with a Chinese woman threatening me under the impression that I'm Sherlock Holmes, or rigged up to a bomb by nightfall.)_

Bubble baths – one of his many subtle oddities. I struggle to get that man's limits: A soldier, a doctor, a former sports fan, an adrenaline addict…and a _bubble-bath-taker?_ Well, for whatever reason, he relaxes and shuts out the world utterly. I know this because I'm often up earlier than he is, so I hear him going off to have a bath. Ten minutes in, a thick silence always descends upon the flat, broken only by the traffic outside. If he were splashing around (or whatever it is that normal people like to do in baths) I would hear it.

This is ridiculous – he's _got_ to stop it. A bath slows your circulation right down and makes you sleepy and sluggish (and aggravates eczema too). A short, lukewarm shower is a much better way to wake up; it clarifies the mind. As a consulting detective I need my colleague to be alert and observant, with quick reactions. Imagine if Lestrade called us out early one morning – I could need John at very short notice, and he wouldn't be much good to me or anyone shivering around the crime-scene in only in a towel.

Anyway a some days ago I was bored. Really bored. I was unemployed, the news was boring; snow, snow, snow; and my violin string had snapped so until the replacement string arrived I couldn't play. I had reached the end of my tether. John had been in the bath for forty-five minutes and I was sick of waiting to have a shower (the shower is over the bath). The lock to the bathroom is a ridiculous design. Essentially it is an elliptical handle on the inside face of the door, and when the handle is turned the door locks. But the locking device goes right through the door and sticks out a bit on the outside face. Not only that, but there is a conveniently deep groove on the sticky-out bit. Surely that's _asking_ for trouble! I fetched a knife from the kitchen, dug it into the groove and gave it a sharp twist. The lock clicked round and I entered.

It was incredibly steamy and stuffy. I threw a flannel in John's general direction for modesty, forgetting that it was cold and wet. It landed on his shoulder. He gave a startled yell. "What the _bloody hell_? Sherlock!"

I held up the knife by means of an explanation, opened the window to let some steam out, put down the lid of the toilet, sat on it and drew my knees up to my chest.

"I'm _bored_!"

"…So you walk in on me in the bath? There's a lock on the door for a reason!"

"I'm still bored. When are you coming out? I want a shower."

"Look, just go through! I'll be out in fifteen minutes – not long, ok?"

"But there's nothing to _do._" I jumped up, paced around the bathroom and closed the window vigorously, causing the catch to break off in my hand. "Oh," I said, "That wasn't supposed to happen." I turned to show him the catch, and realised that, though it was sufficient for decency, his layer of bubbles was shamefully feeble. "No, no, no!" I told him, "This won't do at all…"

"What?"

"Wait there…"

"With pleasure," he remarked.

"I'll be back," I said, as I hurried from the room.

"Unfortunately…" I thought I heard him mutter, before he called out "Close the door!" But by then I was in the landing, and then my bedroom, searching the shelves until I had found what I was looking for. I stopped off in the kitchen to grab the washing up liquid, a glass stirrer and a chemistry beaker.

John, annoyingly, must have got out of the bath to re-lock the door. After twisting the lock again I went in, ignoring his objections. "Glycerin and washing-up liquid together…" I explained, measuring some of each into the beaker and stirring, "…Make an excellent foaming agent…"

"…Sherlock…"

"…It's completely safe – you can eat glycerin; it's a component of fat and a remedy for throat trouble…"

"…Sherlock!"

"…Protects cell samples from freezing, and in the right circumstances this mixture can be used as an aid in to determine the activity of the enzyme catalyse…Now watch." Before he could protest I tipped the mixture into the bath. I then took the long back-scrubber from the side of the bath and swirled the water around, accidentally prodding John in the process. He started to protest again, but I motioned to him to watch and wait. I turned on the taps, swirling the water more with the scrubbing brush. After about a minute the bath was brim-full and John was surrounded by copious amounts of foamy, feathery bubbles.

"Well?" I asked him, "What do you think?"

He paused, tried to say something, stopped, bit his twitching lips, gave up and began to chuckle. "I _definitely_ think," he said after a moment's pause, "That we should install a bolt on the inside of the bathroom door."

Fifteen minutes later John emerged from the bathroom. "You won't be able to have a shower just yet," he advised. I entered the bathroom curiously, and started to smile. The glycerin-washing-up-liquid mixture had been so effective that even though the water had all drained, the bubbles still covered the bottom of the bath like cumulus clouds. I sat down on the lid of the toilet and waited for a few minutes, before trying to wash them away with bursts of water from the cold tap. They stubbornly refused to dissipate. In the end I became too impatient to care anymore and took my shower shin-deep in foam. I'm paying for it now though – the whole intrusion and experiment. My feet, ankles and shins are driving me to distraction with itchiness.


	17. Email: In Reply to Molly's Reply

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FROM: Sherlock Holmes **(s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

TO: Molly Hooper **(BabyBunny1980&yahoo,co,uk**)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Your Poem

CC:

BCC:

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Molly,

I disagree with your last assertion…there's everything that could happen to change it. I could have a terrible brain injury that completely changes my personality. Then my Sherlock-ish-ness would no longer be there and there'd be no reason for you to love me anymore.

Sherlock.

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_Sent today at 18:06:20 GMT_


	18. Sherlock and John's Dream Wedding

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

I walked into the living room carrying a bottle of pills and a blood sample from a woman of one hundred years old, who had been found dead in her home with cyanosis. I wouldn't normally get involved in such affairs, except that this was the seventh person of one hundred years old who had been found dead with cyanosis in four months. Not only that, but the prescription drug I had confiscated appeared to be a connecting factor in their deaths.

"John?" No answer. "JOHN!"

"Oh, there you are, Sherlock. Did you find anything?"

"Yes, I need to run some tests on this blood and these pills and if they come back positive we need…"

"The man. It was the man."

"Sorry, what?"

"At the alter. Get a grip, Sherlock. You heard Lestrade."

Confused, I wandered round the sofa…and smiled: John was spread out over it, sound asleep. He was restless though. Suddenly he spoke again, very clearly and definitely, but obviously dreaming. "The bouquet. She dropped it."

I was about to wake John up, when an entertaining thought struck me. I crept closer and squatted beside him. I had no idea how long he had been asleep, or how long he had been in the REM cycle, but I had to work fast, as a cycle of REM (and therefore the dream duration), could last anywhere from a couple of minutes to up to half an hour, and I was becoming intrigued – the alter comment showed that the dream involved a church, and the comment that it was the man suggested a whodunit element to the dream. Besides, I had never known a person talk in their sleep so clearly, coherently and responsively. I had to probe this further.

"Sorry – daydreaming. What did I miss?"

"God Sherlock, anyone'd think you're hung over. He married the two of them…" The 'He' presumably being the vicar (it's more acceptable to guess sometimes when the only person you could show yourself up in front of is asleep, and the case is a dream), "…Then as they were leaving she dropped her bouquet and one of the congregation handed it back. Remember?"

"Er yeah…sorry."

"Pay attention – call yourself the world's only consulting detective!"

"Ok ok," I muttered, embarrassed to be irritated by a fictional situation in which a fictional version of me was making a fool of myself in front of a load of fictional people, and then irritated that I was embarrassed about being irritated by something so entirely trivial.

"Oh, he's back…any news? What's this?" John jerked, and I backed away, afraid he might wake up. "What's what?"

"The bridal dress…this looks bad, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Come on, a bridal dress in the river Thames…and something else." So…that was the problem! An old, old problem. The bride had vanished. He paused for a few seconds and I was worried that his lucid REM cycle would peter out before I had the clues I needed.

"F.M." He paused for a long time. Then: "But it's a foregone conclusion now!"

"Why do you say that?" I asked, leaning forward in interest. My arm brushed John's hand and he jerked it away. I waited with baited breath but he sank back down again.

"Flora Miller. She and the groom – you said she was jealous…"

"I did?"

"Yes. That she was in love with him a while back. Have I got something wrong?"

"No no, but what else can you see?" I took a stab in the dark: "Turn it over."

"Just a scrap…a receipt…" his voice started to trail off into mumbling.

"Nevertheless!" I said urgently, which brought him back to the 'scene'.

"Er…just writing."

"Read it."

"_You _read it!"

"John…"

"Ok ok! Er…October 4th, Rooms £150, breakfast £9, cocktail £3, lunch £14.50, glass of sherry, £11…bloody hell! Whoever this belonged to had expensive tastes…"

"Obviously," I said, getting excited. For a dreaming man, John's case was hanging together unbelievably well – so much so that I was actually beginning to see a possible solution to the problem.

"John, I need you to do something for me. I need a second opinion. Describe the bride." John rolled over from his back to his side.

"Hmmm…grew up in America. Married there. Husband a soldier. Missing presumed dead. Came over here. Re-married in three months."

"That was tactless."

"Hmm. Vanished at wedding breakfast."

"Oh? Unusual."

"Hmmm."

"How did she appear at the wedding? Happy? Sad?"

"Hmmm…happy. And then almost irritated…and then indifferent."

"When did she get irritated?"

"Bouquet handed back."

"And she vanished just after this? John? _John?_"

"Hmm."

"They usually disappear just before or at the honeymoon."

"Wedding dress found. Note found."

John was beginning to lose coherence and lapse into short sentences and grunts…time was running out. Think think think…I need more information….think oh. OH! An elegant solution…but John is an idiot, would his brain be intelligent enough to work out _such_ an elegant solution?

"Her first husband," I said, talking fast, urgently. "What was his name?"

"Hmmmm…"

"The first husband John, I need the name…"

"I…hmmm…"

"The _name_, John!"

"Um…hmmm…Moulton."

"Good, and the first name! Quickly John!"

"F…F…" he trailed off. I bit my lip in frustration.

"F. Moulton?"

"Hmmm."

And suddenly everything became clear to me. By this time, John had lapsed into light sleep. I shook him. "John?" One sleepy eye opened.

"Mmmm…what's wrong?"

"Hello."

John frowned in puzzlement. "Hi."

"Good sleep?" He rubbed his eyes, then his face, then sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah…good sleep. How long was I out?"

"Don't know. You were sleeping when I got back. Listen John, do you remember the dream you had?"

"Er…let's see…" he put his head into his hands and thought for a few seconds. "Well, bits and pieces…" his head jerked up. "Hold on! How do _you _know I had a dream?"

"Do you remember it?"

"Er…there was a church and a marriage and …oh that's right, a missing bride. You, me and Lestrade were investigating."

"Remember the details now?"

"Pretty much." He looked up and to the right, accessing information from the areas of his brain that deal with facts and the truth. "Yeah. Pretty much all of it's coming back now."

"I solved it. I know why she disappeared. I believe the expression is 'It's so simple I could solve it in my sleep.' But in this instance the case was _so_ simple I could even solve it in _your _sleep!"

John chuckled drily and wandered through to the kitchen in search of a coffee. "You solved it from the three bits of information I gave you just there?"

"Nope. Not exactly." I put a protective agent in the blood sample and stored it in the freezer beside the black pudding; that way if it spilled on the black pudding we wouldn't be eating anything that wasn't already a natural ingredient of black pudding – or not anything very much, anyway.

"Look," said John as I stood up again, closing the fridge door, "What are you saying?"

It was my turn to chuckle. "That you talk in your sleep. Clearly and coherently, and you respond to questions and instructions extremely well…" I affected an air of nonchalance, trying to whistle as I wandered through to the living room (no sound came out – it never has). John followed me through. "So _that's _why you were speaking at me down a microphone all through it!" He frowned thoughtfully. "There was a very good, logical reason for that in the dream... So come on then, where was the bride?"

"With her first husband, of course." I said, taking John's place on the sofa.

"With…but the wedding dress!"

"Just because your wardrobe is in your room doesn't mean you're necessarily inside it."

"Fair point."

"So she's American, her husband is missing, presumed dead. She comes across from America and re-marries in the space of three months. She hasn't got any family over there, and she's not stayed long enough to make many intimate friends. The familiar face of the bouquet-rescuer that so obviously gave her such a shock (hence her reaction which you misinterpreted as irritated) was almost certainly the husband she had thought was dead. He writes to her on the back of the receipt of the hotel he stayed at, and hands it to her in the bouquet which he picks up for her. She puts the note in her dress, disappears with him after the wedding, and they fling the now redundant wedding dress into the Thames. Simple."

John was doing that thing he does when he's really annoyed or upset – he bounces on the balls of his feet – literally hopping mad. _"Brilliant._" He got out between his teeth. "Bloody brilliant, Sherlock. Congratulations."

"What's wrong? I solved the case…!"

"Yeah, my _dream _case – you not only looked into my _head_, but you solved a mystery _I _created with only your sense of hearing and reasoning to help you. And I can't even deduce a few useful things from a pair of trainers that are right in front of me in real life, with woman's life at stake!" He folded his arms and leant against the back of the sofa, gazing in the opposite direction. "But it's fine – it's all fine. Of course it is. You…go on and solve your cases without me. You obviously don't need me."

I was surprised to find my hand was not entirely free from tremor as I laid it on John's shoulder. He didn't shrug me off, but his manner did not warm. Had I done something wrong? He _asked _about the solution, so hadn't I only told him what he wanted to know?

"John…" he didn't respond. I drew breath. "John, you're frustrated with yourself, and that's understandable, but you mustn't take it personally. It's possible that I'm maybe a bit _too _brilliant at times. Think of it this way…I'm a laptop. When you assist me it switches me to the "All on" power mode, and I work fast and well. Obviously I can still work in "Laptop" mode, when you're not there, but it's slow and clunky and frustrating. You see? Or-or-or, I don't know – I'm luminous and you're a conductor of light. No, I didn't mean it like that…John! John, listen a moment!"

He turned slightly. "You habitually underrate yourself. The fact that you could even _have _a dream like that proves how much you've learnt. In thinking up a situation with so many clues and specific points in it that all fit so well together – well you'd _have _to have quite a bit of natural detective ability to do that!"

Somehow that last attempt at comfort struck a cord. His face changed slowly from despondent to pensive, and finally broke into a slight smile. "You're right," he conceded, "I was being childish. I'm sorry."

"Yes. But back to this _real _problem…" I crossed the room and picked up the bottle of pills. "I need to take this to Bart's tomorrow. I'm checking them for alkaloids and cyanide compounds. My guess is that they're spiked with the latter; after all, she was found in a state of cyanosis…"

"…Or she just died of old age, of respiratory or heart failure."

"Hmm, it's possible but unlikely – her daughter left the room for only ten minutes, and she'd walked up the stairs. Not every hundred year old can do that – she was strong. And she had a clear mind; they were chatting about Proust just before she left the room. And she had no history of heart or lung trouble…"

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P.S. Readers may be wondering why I have posted two accounts in a row detailing John's oddities. You must remember that not only did he brandish a corpse at me at Halloween, but he also alerted the whole police force to the fact that my knowledge of the Copernican theory of the planets is quite rusty, and flagged up my unintentional abuse of internal fluid dynamics during times of extreme concentration...So now it's my turn: What goes around comes around.


	19. Email: Molly's Second Reply

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FROM: Molly Hooper (**BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk**)

TO: Sherlock Holmes (**s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**)

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Your Poem

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Sherlock,

There's a well known musician called Clive Wearing, who got the Herpes virus. It attacked his brain and left him with severe amnesia – he cannot form any sort of new memory. He has difficulty controlling his emotions. His consciousness 're-boots' every 20 seconds, sometimes less.

His wife couldn't take the strain of living with him in that condition and left him, but she later returned to him because she missed the 'Cliveness' of him. Every time she comes in the room, even if she only left a few seconds a go, he greets her like he hasn't seen her in years – with a hug and intense joy, and they chat and chat, even though their chat goes round in circles. The nature of their relationship has profoundly changed, but though his mind has been lost, his Cliveness has not. You don't have to have a mind to be loved. I know that is particularly difficult for you to understand, but maybe that's a good thing, because it means you've probably never been in an analogous situation with someone you love.

Molly

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Sent Yesterday at 19:30:04 GMT


	20. Email: Sherlock's Second Reply

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FROM: Sherlock Holmes **(s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

TO: Molly Hooper **(BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Poem

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Molly,

Yes – I have never been in such a situation, and you can rest assured that I shall never be in such a position with this hypothetical person that I love. What you have told me makes a very good anecdote, but I am afraid that I still disagree with you. I appreciate that you're trying to give me an example in case-form, because you think I'll be able to relate to it better, but this one is simply illogical for at least two reasons: Firstly, I looked this man up having read your email, and he certainly _does_ have a mind. He is emotionally dynamic, he can make conversation up to a point, his procedural memory is excellent, he is extremely eloquent and can make observations, inferences, witticisms and jokes, and he can even do complex things such as conduct an orchestra and work out difficult puzzles (provided he is not distracted midway through). The only thing he is missing, albeit quite a major thing, is a long-term memory.

Secondly, there are any number of ways my mind and my "Sherlock-ish-ness" could be properly wiped out. First possibility: I could have a terrible accident and have all my higher brain functions wiped out – this would leave my body as a husk, unconscious, non-sentient and comatose. Or I could develop dementia – and my "Sherlock-ish-ness" would just melt away over time. Or I could die, which to all intents and purposes pertaining to this discussion, would mean that my mind would utterly cease to be, and with it my "Sherlock-ish-ness". So you see, your love of my "Sherlock-ish-ness" does depend, to a degree, on me – and so I still stand by the things I said to you initially.

Sherlock.

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_Sent today at 03:15:26 GMT_


	21. Email:  Molly's Third Reply

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FROM: Molly Hooper (**BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

TO: Sherlock Holmes (**s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Poem

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Sherlock,

You obviously don't have a concept of grief either, or not one in the conventional sense. It must be because you're so wrapped up in working through the details of the puzzle that you never stop to take an interest in the people involved. Either that or you just don't care – or both.

When you lose someone that you love, those feelings don't just evaporate. Normal people don't – _can't_ – work like that. Personally I prefer it that way; better to have loved and lost... As for your examples…if you got dementia I would love you even as your Sherlock-ish-ness changed and faded. If you died or became a husk then, as I said, it would certainly change the nature of my feelings, but not the feelings themselves. Instead of loving you in a concrete and immediate way, I would take pleasure in my memories of you and celebrate the person you were, and what you meant to me and everyone who knew you. You seem to think I'm saying these things just to be stubborn or difficult, or because I'm misguided or in deliberate denial, but as I've already told you, if I could control these things or make them any other way, I would have moved on ages ago.

I can imagine how frustrating it must be for you to be wrong, but this isn't a test or commission, or anything that will show you up. Even you are going to be wrong sometimes, and have things you struggle to understand. Can't you just accept that and believe what I say?

Molly

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_Sent today 23:56:45 GMT_


	22. Email: Sherlock's Third Reply

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FROM: Molly Hooper (**BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

TO: Sherlock Holmes (**s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Poem

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Molly,

I had thought that we were getting somewhere with this discussion. I was listening to what you said and explaining very carefully why I disagree, and you were taking it on board, or so it seemed. Well, it turns out you were right about one thing: I am occasionally wrong. This discussion has gone _nowhere_. You're still convinced that you're cherishing a me that doesn't exist – playing your own private game which I have warned you and warned you and warned you against.

Please – _please_, one last time: All I am to anyone, all I will _ever _be to anyone, and all I ever _should _be to anyone, is a detective – a commodity – a reasoning machine. DO NOT make a hero out of anyone...least of all me. Go and find someone who really _is_ worth cherishing, who is able to give you all the happiness you deserve.

Sherlock.

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_Sent Today at 09:37:29 GMT_


	23. Email: Molly's Fourth Reply

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FROM: Molly Hooper (**BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

TO: Sherlock Holmes (**s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: Your Poem

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No – no! I _know _you're wrong, and there's no two ways about it, and do you know why you're wrong? Because I'm _not _playing a game andcherishing a you that doesn't exist, and I wouldn't be celebrating false memories or impressions of you either! I'd be celebrating and remembering _you _as you were, with all your frustrations and idiosyncrasies and deficiencies. They're part of you and therefore dear to me! And though I wish you would, it actually doesn't make any difference whether you accept or believe or requite it or not; the truth is that like it or not, people _do _care about you in different ways outside of your role as a detective – it isn't just me. And there'd still be a vestige of that care they felt for you, whether you died or were irreparably damaged or turned into a pig and flew away. Of course, it wouldn't take much to turn you into a pig…you can be pretty pig headed as it is.

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_Sent today at 10:02:03 GMT_


	24. Email: Sherlock's Penultimate Reply

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FROM: Sherlock Holmes (**s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

TO: Molly Hooper (**BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: At Last

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Dear Molly,

Listen to us both! Each piling on the evidence to back our views, trying to have the last word and prove ourselves right. It's almost comical really. We're meant to be friends chatting – not rivals feuding! Anyway, I don't care which one of us is right, because now I've seen you do something you've never done before in all the time I've worked with you: You've taken a stand but you've also – without any inhibitions – argued your point with clarity, confidence and conviction. I'll pretend I didn't hear that last comment of yours...

I _knew _you had it in you!

Sherlock.

P.S. Do you believe in a God? I could take a guess from your comments and probably be right, but guessing is an unforgivable habit.

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_Sent today at 15:36:16 GMT_


	25. Email: Molly's Final reply

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FROM: Molly Hooper (**BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

TO: Sherlock Holmes (**s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: Re: At Last

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Hi Sherlock,

Phew…_finally _something sinks in– and about time too! Not what I originally intended, but you're right: I fought the fight. My God…I fought the fight…I _can _argue a point! And I'm sorry I called you pigheaded. You've been really patient and you've believed in me. Thank you for that.

Speaking of believing, do _you _believe in a God?

Molly :)

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_Sent today at 13:00:12 GMT_


	26. Email: Sherlock's Final reply

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FROM: Sherlock Holmes **(s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

TO: Molly Hooper **(BabyBunny1980&aol,co,uk)**

SUBJECT: God

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Molly,

No, I don't believe in a God. Or at least…not like the ones spread across different cultures and time periods. But if proper love is as you believe it to be, and has rules different from anything else in the universe, it does make you wonder. And all these cycles of misery and violence and fear…they must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance which, as a chemist who's studied things like radiation, electromagnetic waves, quantum mechanics and Brownian motion theory – all of which appear to withstand the rigours of science and prove the predictability of the movements of the most basic elements that make up all matter – is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.

I do sometimes catch myself thinking, or hoping at any rate, that the end to which things tend is good – although that particular adjective is a clumsy, subjective one that necessarily implies conscious design. Maybe it's my own private game that I am guilty of playing…But if one doesn't play such a game, what drive is there to do useful things and work to make life here better? I may try to do good myself, but I wouldn't be so arrogant as to presume I could give meaning to all creation by doing so. Some people claim to delight in the meaninglessness of everything…but if everything is meaningless, then all my careful accumulation of specialised knowledge and my meticulous deletion of all distractions, everything I've worked so hard to achieve…all that was for nothing! Keep this private, but that is the one thought that frightens me more than any murderer I might encounter in my work…

Sherlock.

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_Sent today at 08:05:13 GMT_


	27. The Christmas Eve Stocking Standoff

_**Posted by M. Hudson, 10:00pm**_

Goal 1: Get Sherlock and John to bed in good time, before me. They're like two little children keeping each other awake at a sleepover. First John is just about to go upstairs, until Sherlock comes through in pyjamas and dressing gown, wanting to show him an interesting piece of chemistry, music or evidence. Then the next minute, Sherlock's picked up the laptop and is going through to bed, until John calls him back through to see some news article of interest on the telly. This time however, I have allowed the fuel for the fire to run out, disabled the fuse to the living room heater, and put on the heaters in both their rooms. If that doesn't draw them through, nothing will.

Goal 2: Get the stockings filled without Sherlock hearing. John is simple enough – he just goes straight to sleep as soon as he's in bed (I know – he snores). Sherlock, on the other hand, is a very shallow sleeper, and is often up and down several times in the night, which is why I would prefer to ensure they are both firmly in bed and properly asleep before I fill their stockings. However, he has the happy coincidence of sleeping in a room with a creaky floor immediately outside his door, which will hopefully give me time to hide should he wander around at night.

_**Posted by John H. Watson 10:05pm**_

Plan of action: Sherlock and I will fill Mrs Hudson's stocking tonight, once she has gone off to bed – we don't want to risk her coming in during the filling of it and discover it prematurely.

_**Posted by M. Hudson 10:46pm**_

I thought that was it and they were off to bed…until Sherlock decided to play six gavottes in a row. That lured John back through with requests. I've never known Sherlock grant violin requests before. That John Watson definitely has a way with him…

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes 11:03pm**_

She's still not in bed. Something's wrong – she never usually goes to bed this late. She also keeps creeping back and forth from the room, with progressively ridiculous excuses for coming in. Yes, we have food enough for tomorrow. Yes we unplugged the Christmas tree lights. Yes all the windows are closed – and the curtains too while we're at it. Of course, Sod's law decrees that whilst I can go for days on end with no sleep when I don't strictly have to, on the one night when staying up is imperative, my eyelids are beginning to droop.

**_Posted by M. Hudson 11:52pm_**

I got firm with them. Go to bed, I told them, or I will evict you for the duration of Christmas day. That almost sent them to bed…until Sherlock simply marched past me, grabbed his keys from the drawer in the kitchen and slipped them into his dressing gown pocket. Sometimes I want to smack the stubborn little...consulting detective.

_**Posted by John H. Watson 12:04pm**_

Right, enough is enough. I'm not staying awake any longer. We'll fill the stocking in Sherlock's room and put it outside her door early tomorrow morning.

_**Posted by M. Hudson 12:15pm**_

Well, it looks like things are progressing between those two. They _both _disappeared into Sherlock's room. I think on the whole it would be more tactful if I left them to it and did the stockings downstairs. I can leave them outside their door early tomorrow morning.


	28. Christmas Day

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

"John, I can hear her walking around…"

"Well, she's allowed to walk around you know, Sherlock. We'll just have to wait for the perfect opportunity. Wait for the shower to go on or something." It was six O'clock in the morning, and we were standing in the hall. Well, I was standing…Sherlock was lying full-length on the floor with his ear pressed against the carpet, listening intently. Both of us were barefoot and clad in our pyjamas and dressing gowns. The stocking sat by the door.

Sherlock seemed disconcerted. "Something's wrong, John. She's never up this early. Why is she up now?"

"There's no point in fretting over it," I told him firmly.

"It's quiet now," he reported, and lay stock still for a few seconds. "Yes – go now, quickly."

We tiptoed down the stairs in single file, me desperately resisting the urge to hum the Great Escape theme tune. Soon we were right outside Mrs Hudson's door. "Hang it up now," I told Sherlock.

"No, it might fall down."

"Well, if you put it on the floor she might step on it…"

"Look, whose idea was this whole thing anyway?"

"Yours, but I'm the world's only consulting detective!"

"Stop wheeling out that excuse. You just want things your way…"

"And because it's your idea you've been ridiculously bossy all through…"

Suddenly we stopped and stared at each other in horror. We had been arguing so much that we hadn't heard the footsteps approaching the door. It opened, and Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway – also wearing her pyjamas and dressing gown. And she was holding _two _stockings! She gave a startled yelp, and then noticed the stocking in my hand. For a second, nobody spoke. Then: "But…we…you…" Sherlock pointed in confusion from our stocking to her ones. I had never seen him utterly at a loss for words before.

"But _you…_" replied Mrs Hudson. Then, pointing at the stocking; "What's _that _thing?" It was then that all three of us saw the funny side, and we were all overcome by a fit of laughter. Then Sherlock broke ranks dramatically to give Mrs Hudson one of his rare, unpredictable bear hugs. Immediately afterwards he sprang away and the steely, cold mask returned to his face. "Yes, well. Compliments of the season," he said, nodding as one does when business has been successfully completed.

"Er…why not come up and have breakfast with us? We can bring those up too," I volunteered, indicating the stockings.

Ten minutes later, the three of us were seated in the kitchen (having temporarily shifted all the junk from the table into the hall), devouring the only thing there was in the fridge at the time; instant noodles. "Do you actually _live _off these?" Mrs Hudson enquired in mock curiosity. "Pretty much," mumbled Sherlock with his mouth full.

"Discovered by accident," I explained to Mrs Hudson.; "He had do eat a plate of noodles because it formed part of the critical evidence needed to convict an innocent man of murder. I think he's addicted to them now…"

After 'breakfast' we went through to the living room to open our stockings. We did not open them in a particular order – just delved right in.

Sherlock and I both had chocolate coins and a Satsuma. Some things never change…and that's part of the fun of Christmas. Sherlock also go an extremely powerful key-ring torch, some headed writing paper (which said "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, 221B Baker Street" at the top), and an academic book on chemistry. It wasn't a conventional thrilled expression – the mouth was too stiff and the eyebrows too drawn, but there was a gleam in his eyes and a spontaneity in his exclamations that conveyed his excitement.

My stocking also contained a beautiful felt-bound, hand-made-looking notebook, a fountain pen, and a book about the art of detection. "Santa thought that this might help you keep up with Sherlock's deductions during cases," explained Mrs Hudson quietly. I am by no means a touching, hugging-type person, but this occasion called at least for a small attempt as acknowledgement of the thought and effort Mrs Hudson had put into these stockings – and I rose to it as best as I knew how. As for Mrs Hudson, her stocking contained some incense sticks, a nutty chocolate bar, a snow scene with the London eye inside, and hair clip. She hugged Sherlock and, sensing that hugs were not something I was overly comfortable with, kissed the air either side of my face.

Sherlock was now looking uneasy. "You Ok?" I asked him.

"Yes," he replied dubiously. "It's just that now we have to get through the rest of Christmas day which, to be honest, is rather…"

"Boring?" Mrs Hudson and I chorused. Sherlock looked from one to the other of s blankly, and then down at the ground, and then his mouth twitched in a smile.

"I think," said Mrs Hudson, "That if Sherlock had his other present now too, he might find the day goes a bit quicker." She motioned to us to wait and exited.

"Shall we give her the presents too now?" I asked, seeing Sherlock was eyeing the Christmas tree rather eagerly. "Why don't we get it all over with at once?" he suggested, deadpan.

By the time Mrs Hudson returned – carrying two presents – we had brought our Christmas presents out and laid them on the coffee table. We took a more formal approach to these presents, partly because we all felt suddenly a little awkward, but mostly because Mrs Hudson in particular wanted to see our reactions. She opened my present to her first – an electric blanket, and "Perfect Match" by Jodi Picoult.

"Um…Sarah once told me good things about her writing," I explained, "And the case in this book is at least semi-worthy of Sherlock." Sherlock snorted at this. I sighed resignedly in response to Sherlock's snort, and Mrs Hudson beamed.

Next I opened my present from Sherlock. It came in a small canvas case that said "Alphasmart 3000" on it. I investigated in some surprise. It was a tiny electronic word processor. Essentially a keyboard with a small screen. Seeing my dubious expression, Sherlock stood up, snatched it off me, flung the manual to one side dismissively and sat down to demonstrate. "This button turns it on," he said, pressing a small button in the top left hand corner. "And these ones at the top – you press them to move between files. And then you just type as you usually would." His fingers flicked across the keys, and he held up the screen which now read "Once upon a time there was a piglet called Mycroft." I snorted with laughter, and he whipped the screen away again. "If you turn it off your typing is automatically saved as you left it, and if you leave it on it turns off automatically after a few minutes. It comes with two cables. You can either print your work straight out by connecting to the printer and pressing the send button…" he pointed at a button in the top right corner of the keypad, "…Or you can send it to the computer and save it as a word file."

I was beginning to see the wonder of such a present. It was small enough and sturdy enough to go in a normal bag, had a long-lasting battery and took up very little room. And there was no internet for distraction. "They don't make them any more," said Sherlock. "The trouble involved in getting hold of one…well it kept me occupied for nearly twenty-four hours." I whistled – this was a momentous achievement considering there were no deaths involved.

Sherlock gave his present to Mrs Hudson. She unwrapped a small black box made of velvet. When it opened, it played the first nine bars of Chopin's Mazurka in B flat (op. 17, no. 1, according to Sherlock – whatever that means). Mrs Hudson was enchanted, but inside this was something more; a sterling silver simple clasp-chain necklace, with a tiny angel charm hanging from it. Mrs Hudson was silent for a few seconds, as she put the necklace on. "Sherlock, dear, this is beautiful. Where did you learn such good taste?"

"Well, I have seen a few dead women and examined their jewellery," he declared, as though that should have been obvious to anyone. He leaned back lazily on the sofa and closed his eyes. Mrs Hudson didn't look quite so happy at this revelation, but she was obviously very touched.

Mrs Hudson then gave me my present. I unwrapped it and started to smile. "This should keep us occupied!" I said to Sherlock. " 'My Magnetic Poetry' !"

"Let's see?" said Sherlock, grabbing the small box from my hands and ripped it open. At once a shower of small fridge-magnet words cascaded onto his lap. "Oh," he said in a confused tone. "That was unexpected." Several minutes later when all the words had been carefully picked off the furniture, Sherlock had them spread out on the coffee table and was busily arranging sentences. So far he had come up with "Tree kills succulent girl," and "Milk the translucent sleeping sky".

To bring the focus back I gave the penultimate present – my contribution – to Sherlock. He unwrapped it eagerly, and his face registered first puzzlement, then embarrassment, then a sort of feigned, rather unenthusiastic smile. "Um…thanks John…." He said, holding up the box of plastacine tentatively. "Don't mention it," I murmured, a little hurt by his reaction, but equally determined not to bring down the spirit of the day.

The final present we exchanged was Mrs Hudson's present to Sherlock, which turned out to be one of those chair inserts that vibrate and are supposed to relax you. We tried it out on the armchair, tossing aside the union jack cushion to make room. Sherlock was either kind enough or wary enough to allow me to try it first, with the excuse that he had been the first to try my present from Mrs Hudson. I sat back and flicked the 'on' switch. It certainly took a bit of getting used to. The strength of the massager could be adjusted, and I turned it up full, feeling like I was inside a washing machine. I hummed out, smiling as my voice was turned into some sort of shaking male opera-singer's note. "Your turn," I told Sherlock. Rather doubtfully he sat in the chair. "Can I take my phone with me?" he asked. "It's just that it's boring just to sit…"

"No!" We both told him firmly.

"Alright," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I can see that I won't escape being subjected to this. Two minutes and then I really will just aaaaaaahhhhhhh…" The sudden change of manner was very comical to watch as the vibrate kicked in. Suddenly he was no longer the keen-faced, razor-minded, attention-deficit detective we were used to; he was slumped in the chair, eyes closed a look of easy tranquillity upon his face. I slowly turned the vibrate up until his eyes snapped open. "Alright that's enough," Sherlock said, springing from the chair. "Mrs Hudson? Thank you for everything. This has been one of the most…genuine…Christmases that I have ever experienced."

"Oh go away with you! It was a pleasure. And you too, John," said Mrs Hudson, waving her hand self-deprecatingly. "I've got my brother coming over this afternoon, so I should really go and start making preparations. But it's been _such _a long time since I had a stocking and shared presents in such a…unique…way! Thank you, you two, and merry Christmas!"

As soon as she had gone I turned to Sherlock, who was busy with the Magnetic Poetry. "So what was wrong?"

"Mmmm?" He replied, looking up briefly.

"The plastacine." I folded my arms. "You didn't like it. Did I get the wrong colours or was it just…I don't know…boring maybe?"

Sherlock gave the discarded plastacine the merest of glances. "No…no it wasn't that." He resumed his rummaging through the magnetic words.

"Then what?"

"_What _what?" He paused. "John, look. How can I put this nicely? I'm the world's only consulting detective. Plastacine is a _child's _toy." He looked up at me. "Is that what you see me as? A child who needs to be looked after?"

"No…no of course not! But you do sometimes go a bit far…"

"So, not a child who needs looked after. Just another patient then? What?"

"For God's sake Sherlock, it's a gift!"

"Yes, a gift for _children_, John."

"Well that's gratitude."

"Yeah, well, that's what you get for giving people stupid gifts." For a split second Sherlock hesitated, and an expression of regret seemed to cross his face, but it was buried instantly in stubborn irritation. He marched from the room, banging the door.

Well, I would show him, I thought, unwrapping the white plastacine, tearing off a hunk and kneading it furiously in the palm of my hand.

It was just over an hour before Sherlock reappeared dressed, with an empty cup in hand. He still looked disgruntled – probably because he had banished himself to a cold bedroom with nothing interesting to do, simply because he didn't have the grace to apologise for his outburst. Or perhaps he wanted to convey just how much contempt he had for such a present. He was about to walk on through to the kitchen when he stopped, his eye caught by what I had done with the plastacine.

When I was a kid I used to play with the plastacine at school. It was hard, clumpy, difficult to warm up and a dirty brown colour from the other children pooling colours. It also had dry, hard, crumbly bits embedded in it that made it difficult to fashion strong, rounded corners. But I practiced and persisted with it and got – though I say it myself – really very good at making models. Now I had made a series of crime scenes – the crime scenes from the study in pink, as a matter of fact. "You see Sherlock?" I told him as, unable to resist, he came over for a closer look. "If you were able to reconstruct the scenes, complete with the real and hypothetical characters and props; and to reconstruct the paths and actions taken, and the evidence these left – you might find common threads and solutions far faster!"

He was only half listening, already turning over the little plastacine Jennifer Wilson, holding her close to his face and examining her carefully. Then he was picking up a chair from the final confrontation between him and the cabby. After a few moments, he said quietly: "John, these are really good."

"Thank you," I replied with some pride.

"This actually could help us think cases through."

"That's just what I was saying!"

"Yes." He picked up a cold lump of plastacine and tried to squish it between his finger and thumb. Of course, even in his strong grip, the plastacine did not give way very much. I watched with amusement as he looked at the lump, then back at the models, then at the lump and finally, reluctantly, in my direction. "It seems I made a misjudgement."

"Happens to the best of us." He nodded absent-mindedly, examining the models again. "I hate to ask this, but could you teach me how to make models like these?"

"Well," I said, kneeling down on the floor by the coffee table, "That might take a while."

"We've _got _a while."

"Alright," I said, taking the lump from him, "For a start, you can't work with cold plastacine – you have to warm it up before it gets soft. You can do that by holding it in the palm of your hand or better still, you can trap it in your collar bone by shrugging your shoulder upwards and turning your head to rest on it. You can mix colours as you would mix paint, but if you just slam all the colours together you'll only get a mud-coloured mess…"

Some time later, Sherlock had succeeded in making a chair and a person – though they were a little chunky and uneven, with the colours running into each other, and the person could only stand upright if balanced very carefully. I was congratulating him on his efforts, when I heard a gentle cough. Both our heads whipped round, and Mrs Hudson was standing in the doorway, an amused expression on her face. "I'm sorry to intrude, but my brother called to say he's very sorry, but he won't be here until the evening. The snow's delayed his train. I've had the Christmas dinner cooking all morning and he can have it cold, but I mean it's not the same really, is it? I wondered if you'd both like to come down and share some of it hot just now? There's plenty to go around…"

Sherlock seemed to have resigned himself to the festivities after the morning's present-giving session, and having done so was really quite pleasant to be with. It turned out that he was capable of being semi-sociable when he chose to be, and at this meal he did choose. His conversation ranged from great composers to archaeology, to art (of which he had the crudest ideas), and then to different perfumes and, inevitably, their role in detection. Even more impressively, he handled each subject as though he had written a research paper on it. Bear in mind that this is the same man who claimed that his brain was his 'hard-drive', and he only put things into it that really mattered in terms of work. Mrs Hudson banished us as soon as I mentioned clearing up (admittedly, we did not take much banishing), and I actually managed to persuade Sherlock to come for a walk with me. We spent much of our walk in silence, except for the occasional deduction by Sherlock about a passer-by. Such as the fact that a woman who passed by with a dog that snapped at everyone's heels and was wearing a bright pink coat was unmarried and lived alone. Or the man standing on the corner was a probably heavy goods delivery man (he had a very well developed upper body, a less developed lower body, and was standing in a position suggestive of back pain). Or that a car that drove down the street was being driven by a very new driver (very precise and hesitant driving, and a very old make of car with rusting paint and a damaged mud guard, suggesting that it had been kept for the purpose of training up the new driver). I will re-iterate again that, case or no case, living with Sherlock Holmes is never boring, though I have to add that it may not always be what I would call enjoyable either.

When we got back there were two bags at the base of the stairs, containing what looked like Christmas presents. One was addressed to me and was a very heavy bag containing a long, thin package, a short, fat package and a broad, flat, slab-like, heavy, rectangular package. The other simply contained a similar rectangular, weighty parcel and was addressed to Sherlock. There was an envelope in each as well, and Sherlock picked his out and peered at the writing. His face darkened. "It's from my brother," he said shortly, picking up his bag and starting on up the stairs.

"What? But…but I didn't get him anything!" I protested, hurrying after Sherlock, lugging my much heavier bag.

"Oh, it'll probably be food of some kind. Either that or books, or something equally as boring…" We entered the living room and Sherlock tore open his gift impatiently. "See? 'One Hundred Classical Duets – Violin part.' " He opened the book at the contents page. "I can already play most of these," he remarked, scanning the titles with his gaze. Then his face clouded. "Duets?" He mused, "Duets with whom?" He frowned for a minute, then realisation dawned on his face and suddenly he was a picture of animation. "John – John – open your presents!"

"What…why, what is – "

"Just open them and you'll see! Come _on_!" Suddenly Sherlock was heaving parcels from my bag and feeling them, his face shining with eagerness. He then handed me the short, stout, heavy one. I tore it open. It was a music stand – black, perfect and immaculate. A glimmer of realisation began to come to me, but I dismissed the notion: It was too far-fetched and inappropriate. Then again, this man could ring any phone-box he liked, operate any CCTV he liked, lure me into a car park simply to ask me to keep a friendly eye on his brother…

Before I had time to contemplate further, Sherlock had shoved the long, thin parcel into my arms. I took of the paper slowly, and caught my breath. Too ridiculous a notion had just become my Christmas present from Mycroft Holmes! I opened the leather case and caught my breath. Memories flooded back – the school orchestra, the frustrated practicing – the waiting room of the hall where I took my grades… The clarinet was a dark, royal blue with gold finger pieces. Reverently, I fitted the pieces together and put it to my lips. Strange…how the procedural memory endures far beyond the theoretical. I hesitantly played a few notes and realised the clarinet was hopelessly out of tune. After adjusting it, I played a short ditty; The Cat's Theme, from Peter and the Wolf. I remembered the recital at our school Christmas concert all those years back. The shaky legs, the dry mouth and then the satisfaction I felt having made it all the way through the evening. When I had finished, Sherlock nodded curtly, a twinkle of approval in his eye. I dismantled the clarinet and placed it back in its case. I hadn't realised that I had missed playing so much. Knowing what it would be, I tore open the final present; 'One Hundred Classical Duets – Clarinet Part."

"Could you learn some of those up?" Sherlock asked me, as I flicked through the pieces.

"Well I'm out of practice, but with an hour a day – yes, it's possible." Sherlock gave one of his rare grins in response. "What did you get Mycroft?" I asked him.

He shuffled uncomfortably. "Oh, the usual. A thirty pound book token. It's easier that way – he's so particular."

We had a cold supper. Sherlock claimed he could hear faint merrymaking down below. Mrs Hudson's brother must have braved the snow and delays to be with her. I felt glad about that, but I also felt a twinge of guilt. Mycroft – Mycroft gave me a _clarinet_! That was a _huge _present; inappropriately huge. What was it about me that attracted the friendship of oddballs? I hadn't got him _anything_ – didn't think I knew him well enough. I'd sent him a card, but it was a very soulless one all things considered.

We watched the Doctor Who special. Well, Sherlock was riveted to it – which is unusual enough. However I found it hard to appreciate this, or to follow the story, because I was fretting about the clarinet. I reminded myself firmly that Mycroft had meant it to please – not to induce guilt. But, try as I might – the issue weighed heavy on my mind for the rest of the evening.

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

After Doctor Who we played with John's Magnetic Poetry set. We tried a game which I had read about on my iphone, having googled 'My Magnetic Poetry'. We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, with the box of words between us. We each chose twenty random words, and set John's stopwatch to go off after two minutes, during which we had to compose a sentence, story or poem with whatever we had picked. After several rounds and several atrocious efforts, the best of a bad lot ran as follows:

MILK PIE TREE – BY SHERLOCK HOLMES

_Under sleeps the milk pie tree,_

_Down velvet translucent rose in me._

_It goes skywards up the breeze._

_SALMON TULIPS – BY JOHN WATSON_

_Egg sing in darkness salmon tulips,_

_The breast sex does not make incredible_

_Adverb thrills in house._

John retired to bed early. His mood appeared to have deteriorated as the evening went on, which is puzzling, given the fact that he had just been given the most magnificent clarinet, as well as a music stand and book of duets to play with me. When he enters such moods, he is best left to himself, if this is at all possible. I went to the window, opened it, leaned on the sill and looked out. I cannot remember occasion in which I have undertaken so much social interaction for its own sake. I have a vast store of knowledge about detection and very little about normal people or their affairs, so 'chatting' does not come at all naturally to me. In order to interact, I have to steer conversations in directions in which I have some knowledge. Such constant planning, predicting and deducing can exhaust me far quicker than my work.

It was freezing cold, and the snow gleamed in the street lights. There was a perceptible calm in the street – most people were doubtless celebrating the day with family and friends. Hopefully somewhere though, some creative wrong-doer was stalking the streets, picking an opportune time and place…

A few stars were visible in the sky, even with the streetlights. One in particular hung in the sky and shone with a steady, bright light. In my tired state my brain was beginning to play tricks on me. I felt suddenly and inexplicably like a subatomic aerial – with my thoughts projecting outwards into space. It was an overwhelming and somewhat unsettling sensation. "Sherlock Holmes to the universe…" I transmitted, but my lips did not move. "Sherlock Holmes to the universe…"

And then, out loud but in the barest breath: "Are you there? Do you hear me?"


	29. Matching Mycroft's Gift: Gift Ideas

_**Posted by John H. Watson **_

It was the small hours of the morning. Ironically I had left Sherlock sleeping soundly on the sofa while I, on the other hand, tossed and turned in my bed. What do you give a man who, although he doesn't actually owneverything, has the ability to lay his hands upon anything he wishes? Mycroft, for all his pompous manner and upper-class image, really does seem to prefer to live simply and anonymously. Material gifts and a big song and dance would not, therefore, be appreciated. As for festive food, that would just be cruel. Sherlock has told me that Mycroft has tried to diet many, many times and failed: This is the longest he has ever stuck to a diet and exercise regime, and if he were to stop now, he would find it extremely difficult to start again. And with an intellect of that enormity, things such as handy gadgets seem like a waste of space.

I couldn't stand one more minute of insomnia. I got up, threw on a dressing gown and padded downstairs. The fire was still glowing in the grate. Sherlock was slumped on the sofa, laptop on his knee. He'd obviously been working, and despite his repeated claims that he did not need to sleep his brain must have begged to differ. I crept past him and put another couple of logs on the fire. Sherlock sleeps very thinly, and although I tried to be quiet, he stirred. "Oh it's you," he mumbled, sat up and carried on typing where he'd left off. "It's three thirty in the morning, you know," I told him.

"My favourite time," he replied in a sleep-blurred and pre-occupied voice.

"Something to drink?" I asked him.

"Just tea thanks."

I made myself some hot chocolate and Sherlock some tea, settled into the armchair and resumed my bothered thoughts. Sherlock's phone beeped on the floor by the chair and I picked it up. "Mycroft just texted," I told him.

"Delete it."

"You don't know what – "

"Delete."

"But – "

"Delete." he repeated, sounding like a cyberman.

"Why do you resent him so much?" I asked, "He seems tolerant enough. Polite. Leaves you to your own devices. I'd've thought you'd find it good to talk to someone who thought like you."

"Mycroft's not like me."

"How?"

"Many reasons…where do I start? That he used to experiment on me when I was little?"

"_Experiment?_"

"Oh nothing very spectacular. He once tipped a bucket of water over my head to see what I would do. Another time he pushed me fully clothed into a cold bath. Once when I was six he made me get into a barrel. He said we were hiding from the grown ups so we could run away and have proper adventures, and I believed him. Then he shut me inside it and rolled me down the hill in our garden – I hit the wooden fence at the bottom. Got concussion. Oh, and he quite often made me eat worms and slugs."

"And you've carried that resentment ever since?"

"Well…some of the worms may have been slightly toxic – look I don't _know._ We just don't get on. What does it matter?" Sherlock's phone beeped. It was Mycroft again and I was once more instructed to delete the text without opening it.

Sherlock was clearly entering one of those moods where, if you do or say the wrong thing, and most things are the wrong thing in such moods, he gets annoyed, but if you keep still and quiet he gets equally as irritated because he hasn't got anything to kick against. I knew I would only get angry if I stayed in the same room, so I decided to try and get back to sleep again. Upstairs I settled down in bed and turned off the light. Minutes later I turned it on again as inspiration flashed into my mind. It was an unconventional present, certainly. Unlikely to work? Very. But was there any harm in trying? None that I could think of, and some good might actually come from it.

I would give Mycroft his brother for Christmas. I remembered after the Study in Pink, Sherlock disappearing with a snide remark, and me starting to go as well, and seeing Mycroft – analytical, calculating Mycroft – standing alone staring after his brother. Little aside comments as well: "What's he like to live with, hellish I imagine?" "This petty feud between us is childish and people will suffer," and in response to me asking if he really was concerned about his brother; "Yes, of course." The more I thought about it, the more I resolved to find out what this great stand-off between then was about, and attempt to set things right. Anyone could see that it was more than just sibling rivalry, or resentment about childhood games. If I didn't succeed, nothing would change, and if I did, Mycroft might just get the one thing he truly wanted but had so far been unable to get.


	30. Matching Mycroft's Gift: Mrs Hudson

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

My restless night meant that I woke up very late the next morning. Sherlock was out, so I took the opportunity to have a bath without the danger of him barging in with his boredom and bubbles. As I relaxed I mulled over how I was going to get to the bottom of this feud without Sherlock or Mycroft knowing. Of course, the obvious starting point would be to ransack his room and possessions to look for clues. But a niggling inner voice of conscience reminded me that however strongly I felt about pursuing this, my loyalties lay first and foremost with Sherlock: In agreeing to share rooms with me, and in allowing me to assist him during his cases, he had put his trust in me. Searching through his possessions without permission in order to gain information about family affairs which he wished to keep private would be a betrayal of that trust.

My second option then was to talk to other people whom Sherlock knew. It would not be a betrayal of trust to simply have a conversation about him with somebody. Besides, those who worked with him and liked him would conform to his wishes about what he wanted to be kept private. And he would be unlikely to tell anything secret to people who disliked him. Mrs Hudson was obviously the closest person to him in terms of his personal life – besides me of course, and she had known him longer than me so it made sense to make her my first point of contact.

I heaved myself up out of the now lukewarm bath and wrapped a towel around myself. The second person I could think of that would know something about Sherlock on a personal level was Molly Hooper. Her poem alone showed that she had some kind of understanding of the way his mind worked. But also, underneath the business-like and sometimes manipulative manner he adopted when talking to her, there was a distinct sense that he was comfortable with her company. Finally of course there was Lestrade, who had known Sherlock for five years and, although disconcerted and confused by his manner, admired and respected his abilities.

I threw on some clothes and wandered through to the kitchen to make some toast. Chemistry apparatus was strewn across the table, which sported what looked like a new burn mark. Sherlock's phone sat haphazardly amongst all the clutter, which meant that whatever he was doing was not business and was unlikely to take long. I put the kettle on, and it was then that a thought struck me: Was there really any harm in checking his text messages? After all, he left his phone lying around unlocked, let me borrow it without question or condition, trusted me to receive and delete Mycroft's messages and allowed me to use it to send texts. Therefore he probably didn't have anything on it that he wanted to hide. I put two slices of bread into the toaster and sat down carefully, picking up the phone.

There was a huge backlog of text exchanges visible, and I scrolled down. Mostly between Lestrade and myself, and a couple from Mycroft. Eagerly I opened a stand-alone message from him.

MH: Meet me at the bridge at 4

Checking the date on this one I noted that Sherlock had not shown up: He had been pouring every ounce of his energy into tracing the owner of an old hat he had found hanging in a bush. It took me four minutes, one cup of coffee and two slices of toast before I found the following:

MH: Be sensible, Sherlock.

SH: You just lost The Game.

MH: Do what I say before I have to threaten you.

SH: Leave me alone. I would never share rooms with you.

MH: At least consider it – you know Mummy never liked you to be alone.

SH: Don't patronise me, and no. Now go away.

MH: Oh for goodness sake. I'm simply doing my duty.

SH: Keep your nose out of my life, Mycroft – I'm an adult.

MH: I can't do that, Sherlock. Must I tell Mummy about your obstinacy?

SH: If you do I'll leave the country.

MH: You have a death-wish.

SH: No, this is how I work best.

I tried to make sense of these exchanges. Mycroft had for some reason considered it his duty to try and force Sherlock to share rooms with him. I could understand his concern, but his persistence and _in_sistence were puzzling. Not to mention the death-wish comment. At face value it seemed a perfectly valid comment to make of Sherlock, but why would Mycroft make such a remark simply because he refused to share rooms? And "Mummy never liked you to be alone" – why not "Mummy never liked _us_ to be alone"? On one hand I was beginning to see why such bludgeoning interference, coupled with more than a little self-righteousness, would lead to resentment on Sherlock's part. On the other hand I knew I couldn't reconcile the two of them without knowing what had originally put the fear of God into Mycroft. Sherlock's protest, 'I'm an adult', indicated that Mycroft's over-concern stretched back to their childhood – just like the feud between them...

At that moment the door was flung open and Sherlock walked in, carrying a gigantic box which he dumped on one of the chairs. "Centrifuge," he explained, "At last! It holds eight test tubes, can go up to 16,000rpm, with a temperature range of four to thirty degrees Celsius. I've wanted a proper one of these for years. Oh – it was here all the time!"

Thank God for the homing button on the i-phone – Sherlock took it from my hands and began flicking through the news and police reports. "Anything of interest?" he enquired.

"Not that I can see. Only that poor woman – she was murdered. Strangled."

"Ah yes. Well, we'll keep our eye on that. What about that assault case?"

"Still inconclusive."

Sherlock's mood instantly changed from bright to brooding, and he slapped his hand on the table impatiently. "Idiots," he muttered under his breath. "It's the neighbour – the one with the odd-jobs truck. It's _obvious_! I mean he's the only other one with unlimited access to the house…the only one with a motive and no alibi! Plus the paint on the carpet should have been proof even without any DNA! I know, I know," he added as I started to protest, "It's inconclusive and not foregone and there's no way he can get off etcetera, etcetera, but the law is stupid! And the police are all idiots. DNA testing is a useful tool but it's killing the art of _proper _detection and that can only end in disaster."

"If you say so."

"I do." Sherlock fell silent for a while as he unpacked the centrifuge. "This can go on the sideboard by the microwave. I'll have to go out again this afternoon," he added. "Nothing very interesting or I'd probably invite you. I have to question two people who were arrested in connection with the smashing of three sculptures."

"What's so special about a few smashed sculptures?"

"Nothing except the fact that they're identical, from unconnected residences, and someone is willing to housebreak and murder in order to smash them."

"Ah. Well, good luck with that."

"Yes…" he muttered distractedly, turning on the centrifuge. "Look at it go!" He added in an awed whisper.

-/-/-/-

I decided to transcribe the text conversation from memory as best I could, but when I got to my desk I found my laptop had gone. A post-it note was stuck in its place, which read: "Will get it back soon. Use mine – on bed. SH."

"Brilliant," I exclaimed to the empty room, "Back in what condition?" I fetched Sherlock's laptop, opened it, turned it on…and was faced with a password box. "Sherlock, you idiot!" I sighed exasperatedly, placing my forehead in my palms. Then an idea came to me – why not use my new alphasmart? It would be as good a way as any to break it in. If I could only remember where I had put it amongst all this untidiness…

High and low I looked, but no alphasmart turned up. My search migrated from the living room through to the kitchen, then from there to the bathroom and both our bedrooms, but was ultimately fruitless. I decided to call in on Mrs Hudson downstairs and see if she had seen it. I knew she had been up recently in order to turn the fuse to the living room heater back on.

"John – how lovely to see you!" she said, patting my arm. "Come in and have some tea!" I was about to refuse when it occurred to me that this might be an excellent opportunity to ask her about Sherlock and Mycroft.

"What brings you down to see me?" Mrs Hudson enquired, as she got a cling-filmed plate of Christmas cake out the fridge.

"Two things actually. The alphasmart Sherlock gave me at Christmas. I can't find it."

"Dear me – but I can't say I'm surprised. It's a wonder you can find anything in amongst that mess."

"You don't remember seeing it do you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact I had to clear a fair bit of stuff to get to the fuse switch that time. There was an alpha-thingy in amongst it all It could've been crushed so I brought it down here until I found out whose it was."

Mrs Hudson put my cup of tea down in front of me, offered me a piece of Christmas cake, opened a drawer in the table and took the alphasmart out. "Is this it?"

"It is," I said, smiling in relief. "Mrs Hudson, you are a saint."

She waved her hand in response. "What was the other thing you wanted then?"

"To ask you about Sherlock and Mycroft," I said. "You've known him longer than me – I'm trying to find out why he hates his brother."

"Oh, that." Mrs Hudson said, "I just always say that men will be men. Or boys more like. Especially brothers. I should know!"

"So you don't know anything then?"

"All I know is that Sherlock's never liked people caring about him or being concerned for him."

"No idea why?"

"Well, when he asked me if my rooms were still free, I made the usual polite conversation. I asked him if business brought him this way and he said partly that, partly the money and partly to get away from his brother. I asked him whether it was some sort of domestic between them and he said something about his brother disapproving of everything he did. I think his exact words were "He dislikes my thinking, my violin and my methods in that order." But why do you want to know?"

"Because his brother wants to be friends with him."

"Does he? That's a pity – I don't think you'll be able to help with that. The whole thing sound very deep seated."

"Well, even deep seated things have to have an origin."

I finished my tea and picked up the alphasmart. "I'd better go now. Thanks for everything."

"It was a pleasure, as always."

Just before I left, Mrs Hudson called me back. "I forgot to say...It isn't my business as such, but in case it helps – nicotine isn't the only drug Sherlock's used."

I turned and made my way back in, my heart sinking. This was exactly what I had feared. Half of me didn't want to hear what Sherlock did to himself, but I knew it would ultimately be in his interests to know. "What else then?"

"He…" she faltered, and her eyes widened. "Well…when I was working with him on my case I caught him with a syringe. Don't ask me what he was injecting…but if he ever wears a T-shirt look at his upper arms." She put her hand to her mouth, "They're – they're covered in scars." I put a comforting arm on Mrs Hudson's shoulder. Then, in a tremulous voice: "Oh John! He'll kill himself eventually. Can't you do something?"

"I can try, Mrs Hudson…" I told her gently.


	31. Matching Mycroft's Gift: Seven Percent

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

After Mrs Hudson had closed the door, I marched resolutely up the stairs.

It would have been a betrayal of Sherlock's trust to go through his things against his will in order to dig up his past, but if he took drugs it was different: It was my _duty _as his friend and doctor to know as much as possible. I dumped the alphasmart on my bed, entered the living room…and saw Sherlock sitting in an armchair plucking away on his violin. He must have returned while I was talking to Mrs Hudson.

As soon as he saw me he gave a guilty start. "John – yes – hello! So the three plaster casts – I've managed to trace the place where this latest on was sold. A little shop run by Mr Morse Hudson, no relation..." He gestured in the direction of 221A. "Well, he gave me the details of the manufacturer's. They're partially hand made. The plaster is loaded into casts, allowed to dry and hand-painted. Then they're shipped to the customers and outlets in batches. I just texted Lestrade – I told him to ask each of the owners about where and when they got the sculptures, but he's more interested in the crime scenes and questioning them about what they saw. Can't take a hint, as usual." He plucked the D-string on his violin.

There was something not quite right about his manner. His voice was higher than usual, his word-emphasis was all wrong, he was sitting strangely and his eyes kept flicking to his desk. I stared at him suspiciously, and then crossed the room to investigate.

Lifting up a bundle of papers I found it. A hypodermic syringe. There was a deadly silence.

"Cocaine," said Sherlock's voice behind me at last. "A seven percent solution."

"This is insane," I said quietly. I turned to him, holding up the syringe. "How can you take this stuff?

"Well, I source it reliably."

"Cut the crap, Sherlock, you know what I mean. Do you know what it does to your mind?"

"Clarifies and stimulates it."

"Yes, and destroys it eventually!"

He sat silently, looking at the floor and stroking his violin thoughtfully.

"My mind rebels at stagnation," he said at last. "Give me problems – proper problems, I mean _really difficult _problems. Then I'm in my proper atmosphere. Without work I'm not…not _anything._ I crave mental exaltation."

"Why?"

He looked at me sideways, and then laid down the violin. "Because nothing else is worth living for." He paused. "When I was little something happened to me. Call it an epiphany if you like, you wouldn't be far wrong. Hard to describe really without succumbing to poetry which, whilst it's a perfectly valid medium, is not well suited to functional descriptions."

"Try and describe it. Please."

"Alright," his eyes wandered as he searched for words. "Well…there were two times. Once when I was six I was trying to solve a rubix cube. And another time not long afterwards at the theatre, listening to Grieg. It was like – like flying. The room expanded into an infinite sky – colours and sounds were suddenly ten times more vivid – bright, _bright_ sunlight everywhere. And I knew everything – _everything_, and I could see how it all connected! I could feel every cell in my body tingling – literally every cell. Think of it, John!"

Sherlock's eyes were sparkling, and his face had taken on a faraway expression. He wasn't just remembering or trying to explain anymore – he was re-livingthe experience in his imagination. But _what_ experience? Right then I would happily have given all my money and even my liberty just to get one minute inside his mind. Suddenly his eyes burned into mine. "I felt so _happy_," he whispered.

Then the moment had passed, and he was his cold, detached self again. "You weren't supposed to see me taking the cocaine," he stated.

"And you're not supposed to _take _it!" I shot back, following his example.

"Strange…you're a doctor. You're meant to prescribe drugs, not condemn them." He picked up the syringe and twirled it between his fingers provocatively. "Inhibition of seretonin uptake in the brain," he said, "A backlog of the chemical results, causing feelings of tranquillity and contentment. A flood of seretonin – that's exactly what happens when you laugh a lot and I don't see you condemning laughter."

"But it's _natural_."

"Oh well if that'sthe best argument you can produce then I won't even discuss it with you. John, most vitamin C capsules contain a synthetic form of the compound and yet you actively _condone _their consumption."

"But the cardiovascular side effects! It can be fatal for God's sake!"

"Side effects!" Sherlock gave a hollow laugh, stood up and began pacing the room in agitation. "Salbutamol has cardiovascular side effects, but I'm willing to bet you've prescribed it to at least one patient for asthma! And," he added as I opened my mouth to protest, "Don't come back with a counterargument to the effect that in the case of salbutamol the good outweighs the bad. That's true and I don't dispute it – but when I inject I get clarity, and then I solve cases, and then I save lives. If I didn't take it people would be dead. Plus I'd be miserable and therefore insufferable to live with – what's good about any of that?" I closed my mouth.

"And it can be fatal – no disagreement there but so what? So can paracetemol! So can just about _any _drug or supplement for that matter, if the dosage is wrong or even if you just have unfortunate DNA! If paracetemol had been invented recently there's no _way _it would have been FDA approved – the consequences of an overdose would be considered just too risky. It's only sold over the counter now because it has been for decades, and they sell it in small, very dilute amounts with specific instructions about the dose. I inject small, dilute amounts of _my _drug of choice, plus I've studied chemistry, poisons and anatomy; I _know_ what I'm doing dose-wise. And finally, just because you can overdose safely on a drug doesn't make it acceptably safe – look at what happened with thalidomide! So to turn that around, just because you can die from an overdose of a drug doesn't necessarily make it unacceptably _unsafe_." He came to a stop in front of me. "Anything else you'd like to say?"

I consider myself to be a fairly level-headed person. I've seen far too often what anger and violence can do during Harry's drink-fests and, on a much larger scale, in Afghanistan. But there was something about the utterly selfish and smug manner which Sherlock was adopting that made me see red. I stood up. "Yes," I told him. "Several things – things which you have conveniently chosen to ignore. Tolerance, debt, addiction, collapsed veins and bodily scarring. I don't have to spell it all out to you. But it's more than that. _You_ may know what you're doing, but there are plenty of people out there selling and condoning the drug that _don't _– people who sell it to _primary school _kids. They feed them a pack of lies to get them hooked for life, milk them for all they've got, and on top of that are quite prepared to blackmail, kill and maim just to keep their pockets swollen and their illegal business fashionable."

The volume of my speech had been steadily creeping up and now I was almost yelling. Sherlock had never seen this side to me. He's only ever seen the me that follows, counters, improvises and tolerates. That's not to say that I can't stand my ground – but he's used to me doing so by going about my plans in a quiet, stubborn and assured manner. Or by point-blank refusing to back down on something I feel strongly about or collaborate with him in something I'm not comfortable with. Now he listened attentively to my passionate outburst with wide, surprised eyes and a slightly open mouth.

I threw on my coat and jabbed a finger at him. "You're helping them, Sherlock. Maybe you _do_ save one or two lives when you're high, but there are hundreds more that die each year because of the illegal drugs trade. Mycroft told me once that you never played games with your own sound conscience. If that's true then _don't_ play games with it now by ignoring me. I'm going out – I need some air."

And with that I strode from the flat with my heart racing and my head throbbing.


	32. Matching Mycroft's Gift: Fourth Napoleon

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

I made my way up the street and across the Outer Circle until I came to Regent's Park boating lake, where I got my breath back. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to get out quickly and cool off, but now I just stood in the twilight, stupidly looking at the cold, algae-covered water. A few ducks stared at me derisively.

I sat down on a bench and looked at my watch. If I could just while away half an hour I could return to the flat without looking defeatist or idiotic. After several minutes I began to wish I had brought gloves: Despite the fact that it was once more officially warmer than the fridge outside, there was still a distinct wintry nip in the air. I jiggled my legs and blew on my hands, trying to keep warm. A woman steamrollered up the path past me, dragging a screaming child behind her. "_I want to go back_!"

"We are _going _to feed the ducks!"

"I want a carry! _I do want a_ _carry_!"

"Keep up!" She gave him an almighty tug which sent him stumbling in front of her.

"I DON'T WANT TO FEED DUCKS!"

"I don't care what you want…"

"LET GO MY HAND!"

"If you don't be nice _right now_ you're not going to Peter's tomorrow."

"NOOOOOO…!"

"Right, that is _it…_"

I listened and watched as they disappeared down the lane and their voices faded into the background. Perhaps giving drugs to little children wasn't such a bad thing after all… I immediately reproached myself for such a thought, but couldn't help chuckling a little anyway.

"That's better," a familiar voice said from above and behind me.

"Jesus Christ!" I said, leaping up.

"Well, what I do isn't technically miraculous, but if you want to call me that…" Sherlock stood behind the bench, phone in hand. "Lestrade texted me just after you left," he explained. "Just says 'Come at once.' We'd better get going…"

"We?"

"You're up for it too, aren't you?"

I bit back the last traces of my irritation – this had been the first case that was truly worthy of Sherlock for at least a week. "Of course!"

"Thought so…I've already ordered a cab. Come on."

We pushed through throngs of morbid sightseers and even a television crew. The door was roped off and Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade were waiting. "You're out of luck, Freak," Donovan told Sherlock, "The body's been taken out. And you," she added turning to me. "Still with Sarah?"

"None of your…" I stiffened. "Hang on, how do you know who I'm with?"

"Oh come on. You hang out with a man who claims to be a detective but has no official credentials, the two of you get kidnapped, her life is threatened before he charges in at the last minute and saves the day; then shortly afterwards your flat blows up leaving him unscathed, and you run off to join him. She was scared and went to the police."

"And she got you?"

"She didn't _get _me. She requested me. We were at school together."

"And what did you tell her?"

"Let's go, John…" said Sherlock.

"What did you tell her?" I repeated, undeterred.

"What a good friend _would_ say, of course."

"John she's winding you up…" Sherlock put a restraining hand on my arm, but I shrugged him off.

"Which is…?"

"To stay away from you two if she doesn't wanna end up dead."

"Anyway…" Lestrade cut in hastily. Reluctantly I turned and followed him and Sherlock up the stairs. "We took photos and I've kept the contents of the man's pockets. There was a photograph in his pocket. A continental-looking male, about thirty to thirty-five years old. It's all at the morgue. Oh, and I roped off the fragments of the sculpture, just in case they were useful. Funny thing is they were found a good quarter of a mile from here. Of course, the others all think I'm crazy..."

"…But they don't know what they're talking about. And as for you, if we're very lucky we might make something of you yet." Lestrade chose not to respond to this last comment, but I thought there was a gleam of pride in his eye.

"I never know what you'll fixate on next or why," he remarked.

"…Which is precisely why you'll continue to call me in," Sherlock finished.

We entered the living room. The floor was clear, but framed pictures, sheets of bubble wrap and little ornaments and sculptures were piled in every corner. A solemn-faced, untidy man of about fifty was pacing between the window and the electric stove. A young police officer sat in an armchair watching him with an inscrutable expression. Every time the man approached the window he would look down, worry lines would crowd his forehead and he would turn on his heal and retreat, only to approach the window again some seconds later. "Mr Horace Harker I presume?" said Sherlock Holmes, intercepting him in mid-pace.

"Yes, yes." Mr Harker paused, and then smiled in a bemused fashion. "I'm a journalist – this ought to be my lucky break. But I just can't seem to get my head around the whole thing! Such violence – such tragedy, all for a silly cheap statue of Napoleon. My wife died of a heart attack two weeks ago. She was a bit of an art collector," he added, dropping his gaze. "She bought the statue on ebay just before she died."

"Do you know the seller?" Sherlock's face was suddenly tense.

"I went to the address with her to pick it up. 49 Kensington Road. But please, if I answer your questions you must explain what it all means. I've had to tell my story four times now and each time I'm letting vital material slip through my fingers. I'm only trying to make a living…" he added, somewhat defensively.

"Aren't we all?" Sherlock murmured, and then snapped back to the problem in hand. "Tell me what happened," he said in the gentlest voice he was capable of.

"Well…it's like this. We went together to pick up the statue – the woman she bought it from lives at thirty four High Street. She had two identical statues – bought from the same shop, she said. I work best at night you know. I was sitting there last night, about three in the morning, typing away in my room, and I heard this muffled noise. I came through to investigate and as I entered the living room there was this…this _scream_ from the street…" Mr Harker's composure began to slip, and he had to sit down in an armchair.

"Alright," said Sherlock softly, "Just take your time."

"Ohhh…it was horrible. I can still hear it – it'll haunt me forever. Well…I grabbed one of the heavier sculptures and ran through to the living room. That window was open," he gestured to the window that looked down onto the main street, "And Elise's statue was gone. I ran out into the street…" He had to compose himself again. "I got out the door and almost on the step as it were, there was this dead man and blood – blood everywhere, coming from his throat, and…and…and then I can't remember any more." Mr Harker shook his head slowly in sadness and horror.

"Did you know the man?"

"No – no I'd never seen him before in my life."

For a minute we were all silent. Sherlock leaned out the window, then made for the door. "Well Mr Harker, you've been very helpful to us," he said. "We must go now, but before we do, you can put this in your piece: Somewhere out there is a crazed murderer with Napoleonic delusions who'll stop at nothing. That ought to get their attention. Lestrade, take me to where the statue was found." And with that we filed out the room, leaving Mr Harker at a loss for words.

"Why did you tell him that? I mean, you don't seriously _believe _it's a case of monomania or whatever, or you'd never have touched it with a barge-pole…" I protested, as I hurried down the street after Sherlock and Lestrade.

"What? No…" was Sherlock's abstracted reply, and I knew it was no use questioning either of them further.

We came to the grounds of a boarded up house. Lestrade opened the gate and led us up the path. It was a startling sight. The statue hadn't just been smashed – whoever was responsible had done his or her best to completely reduce it to dust. Sherlock dropped to his knees and, scooping up the remains, used his fingers to sift through the shards. Afterwards, he sat still for about a minute, and then got up decisively. "So a man cares about a lump of plaster more than another human life. That suggests there's something more to it than just a manic hatred of Napoleon or art or anything. Also, what does the fact that he takes the statue a quarter of a mile down the road to this particular house suggest?" We both looked blank. "Oh come on! Think – it's not hard!"

"Well, he wanted to go somewhere where he wouldn't be seen, of course," said Lestrade, shrugging.

"Yes yes, but we passed another empty house on the way here – he could just as easily have gone in there…" As Sherlock spoke he caught my eye and I thought I saw him jerk his head upwards just a tiny bit. I looked up, and suddenly it was clear. "The street lamp!" I exclaimed.

Lestrade looked up at the street lamp that sat just outside the garden.

"What about it?" he shrugged.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" I said, enjoying myself now. Sherlock turned away quickly, shoulders hunched. I got the strong impression he was holding back a laugh. I continued: "He needed an empty house for seclusion, but he also needed the lamp to see what he was doing."

"Therefore…?" Sherlock's voice cut back in,

"Therefore…" I thought, and then inspiration struck. I was about to answer when I saw Sherlock shake his head at me. "…We remember the fact. Might be significant at some stage," I finished, and Sherlock nodded at me behind Lestrade.

"So, what next?" I asked as the three of us made our way back to the house.

"Well," Lestrade said, "I for one am going to try and find out about the dead man. Very unusual – there was no phone, no wallet. He may have been homeless of course…but if we can trace his colleagues, friends, family – if he has any – they'll probably give us clues about what he was up to. What do you think?"

"Well, I wouldn't do it like that. But don't let me stop you. As for us, we've done all we can today. Tomorrow we'll talk to the woman who sold Mr Harker's wife the statue. She might be a vital link."

"Look, Sherlock – if you're messing us around…that is, if you know what's going on tell me, 'cos this is getting ridiculous. A man has died. Try and remember that instead of focussing on the statues."

"Well… do what you like – I don't care. But it makes more sense to investigate the _reason _this person would kill for a statue, particularly if there's a very obvious pattern. More people are in danger: There's method in this thief's madness. Oh – and can you email me the photo you found in the dead man's pocket?"

Lestrade pouted, and then controlled his irritation. "Just remember that I break several rules every time I let you in. This had better be worth it." With that he walked off.

We took another taxi back home. Sherlock stared out of the window deep in thought. I have often wondered why he refuses to use the tube system or buses, but in one sense I am grateful that he's like that: He probably wouldn't need a flatmate if he had cheap habits. "49 Kensington Road was the location of the last breakage," Sherlock said suddenly, and then hunched over his phone. A few minutes later he started to laugh quietly, and passed me the phone without explanation. I looked at the screen and smiled. He'd accessed an online news site, the front page of which read "Crazed Napoleon-Hating Murderer Still At Large."

I smiled, and then saw Sherlock looking anxious.

"Yes…the media can be a very useful tool, but it works so quickly – possibly too quickly in this case. Now we have a fifty per cent chance of failing miserably or becoming heroes. We can only hope our artistic-minded criminal doesn't strike again prematurely…" He bit his nails and refused to say anymore until we arrived back at Baker Street.


	33. Matching Mycroft's Gift: From Number 49

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

I was beginning to understand why my flatmate slept so badly… my head was _buzzing _with questions. Aside from the Napoleon problem, I was no further on in solving the feud between the two brothers. All I knew of Sherlock's childhood was that he'd started detection early, he had always loved classical music, he could solve a rubix cube before he was ten, he'd had two epiphanies, and Mycroft had experimented on him.

I turned on my laptop and checked my emails. There was one message in the spam box, name withheld, username mam2s+m – whatever that meant. I clicked on it:

_MJL '10_, **70, **2 130-145

I would have deleted the email, but the username gave me a very strong feeling of déjà vu. I stared at the numbers, trying to make sense of them. I copied the code and email address, along with the strange set of numbers and letters, onto the back of my hand with a marker that lay handy.

"Well at least it's not another offer of cheap Viagra," I muttered.

"What's that? You're going to order Viagra?" Sherlock piped up. I maintained a dignified silence, which of course made him come running to see what I was looking at. He frowned at the message in puzzlement.

"A code. Why didn't they send it to _me_?"

"Well maybe they only read my blog."

"Possible. But unlikely."

"Why unlikely?"

"Most people probably get to your blog through mine."

"And why is that?"

"Well, why else would they read your blog? So…a code. MJL – that sounds like a name. The first number is a date – you can tell that from the apostrophe. The last two numbers look like page numbers… Looks like a book reference judging by the fact that there are at least one hundred and forty five pages, and the publication must be standardised for the sender to refer meaningfully to page numbers. Wait…Maybe the letters aren't a name but a clue to the book title. Right, so a book with the initials MJL – why a date? Year of publication, obviously. Given the publication date it must be the first edition, so these other numbers won't be edition numbers. Which MJL book that was published this year has at least one hundred and forty five standardised pages? I…" he broke off abruptly and his face darkened. "Oh, no you don't!" he said in a very different tone of voice, and before I could do anything he had deleted the email.

"What…why…?"

"Oh nothing – just spam," Sherlock informed me lightly. His eye caught the writing on my hand. "What's that?" he demanded.

"None of your business," I retorted. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. I tried to pull away, but his fingers closed like a vice.

"Why did you write these down?"

"I just thought they might mean something. Let go! You're cutting off my circulation."

He let go, leaving fading white finger-marks.

I decided it would be wise to memorise the numbers, as even permanent marker doesn't stain skin or remain readable for very long, and after Sherlock's display with the email, it seemed that if I took a copy he would probably find a way to destroy it. I looked, covered, saw, wrote and checked until I could recite the username and all the numbers (including the punctuation and the cases and fonts of the letters) by heart. Later on while we were watching the news I tried saying them over to myself in my mind.

"Stop it." Sherlock broke in on my thoughts.

"What?"

"Stop thinking about them."

"What?"

"The numbers and letters."

"I wasn't."

"Yes you were, I saw your lips move! You're reciting them."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, stop being so paranoid. And have a bit of respect for autonomy."

"Autonomy? Autonomy's boring."

"_Everything's _boring with you – "

" – Shush," he interrupted, without looking away from the TV.

"You're insufferable," I told him.

-/-/-/-/-/-

The next morning was very foggy and overcast, but I felt cheerful as I tripped into the kitchen for breakfast. I had made up my mind that if Sherlock didn't need my assistance I would go to the public library and see if I could use their database to investigate MJL. Sherlock entered the room looking anxious and disgruntled, sat down, picked up his phone and started tapping away urgently. I was surprised to notice a good-sized bruise on his forehead. "Something happen last night?"

"Not as such," he said, "Just hit my head off the bedside table."

"That was silly."

"I wasn't awake. I move around a lot in my sleep. Quiet a moment."

He continued to work on his phone, his face haggard with worry. Gradually that anxiety faded and eventually he gave a sigh of relief.

"It's ok – we've still got our case."

"What do you mean?"

"No texts from Lestrade and no reports of any more robberies. I emailed Gelder and Co.– that's the company that manufactured the statues. They sell them in batches of six. That could potentially be what's connecting these robberies. If, as I think, the four statues that have been smashed so far are all from the same batch that leaves two more potentially vulnerable statues out there. The thief is probably going to strike again and if he does he won't wait around to do it. Not now that he knows the police and I are onto him. And the Horace Harker article will make him feel safe because he'll think we're on the wrong track."

"So what's the plan today?"

"Well, this morning we'll talk to Miss Hallie Adams of 49 Kensington Road. We need to know where she bought the statues, then we'll go there and see if they recognise this…" He held up a printed photograph – presumably a copy of the one Lestrade had obtained from the dead man. The man in the photograph was clean-shaven and had tanned skin with a distinct sheen. His hair was greasy, black and came down to just past his ears. He had bushy eyebrows which shadowed his dark eyes, giving him a decidedly cagey look. A scar was visible down the left hand side of his nose.

"Well he certainly looks the part," I said.

"Mmmm…but looks can be deceptive," said Sherlock. "If you must finish that cereal do it quickly and we'll be on our way."

-/-/-/-/-

49 Kensington Road could not be more different from the flat of Mr Horace Harker. It was a beautiful, big, old fashioned stone house. Miss Hallie Adams was a single mother of thirty six, whose make-up was perfectly applied and who wore a blue silk scarf and slippers in the shape of rabbits. She had identical twin daughters – Lauren and Lucy – aged seven. They were at school by the time we arrived, which was probably for the best, but the hall was full of photo collages and artwork by the girls. Two identical pairs of small wellington boots sat side by side under the coat pegs (two of which were at a level easily reachable by children).

"We won't disturb you, Miss Adams" I said.

"Oh, don't worry, call me Hallie."

"You'll have been questioned already about the smashing of your statue, but we're associated with the police and we have a few additional points we need to clarify. Mrs Elise Harker purchased one of your statues on ebay, didn't she?"

"Yes, I sold it to her – I needed the money. Then of course this happened. I don't suppose she'd let me buy it back? "

There was a rather awkward silence. "Well, that's why we're here," I said, "Mrs Harker's house was broken into the night before last and the statue was smashed."

Hallie's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh God…I had no idea. I've been rather preoccupied lately, work issues…" she waved her hand apologetically over her attire. "But the two of them – are they alright? They weren't hurt?"

"Elise Harker died of a heart attack just after purchasing the statue," Sherlock informed her briskly.

I could have throttled him. Poor Hallie paled and dropped her gaze. "My God – they seemed such a nice couple when they came to collect it."

"Yes," said Sherlock, "Speaking of that, do you remember where you bought the statues?"

"Um…well, yes," said Hallie, frowning at him, "At the end of the street – Harding and Son. I thought they'd look nice either side of the mantelpiece, and they were having a clearing out sale. But…but is poor Mr Harker alright?"

"I'm sure he's fine," said Sherlock robotically, "C'mon, John, we've got to talk to the manager of Harding and Son."

He made for the door.

"Sorry about him – gets carried away on the job sometimes." I said to Hallie, gesturing at Sherlock who was lingering impatiently on the doorstep.

"Oh, it's alright. You must be terribly busy. It's just such a shame – I'd better call Mr Harker."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that," I said, and we left.

"Well done yet again," I muttered sarcastically as we made our way to Harding and Son.

"What else was I supposed to say – that she's pushing up the daisies?"

"A little tact wouldn't have done any harm."

"I was trying to get it over with as fast as possible."

"A simple 'I'm sorry, but Mrs Harker passed away a few days ago' would have been fine."

"Well, _thank _you_, _John, I shall bear that in mind."

We walked in heated silence until we came to Harding and Son. It was an oldish shop with slightly peeling paint above the door. Various pictures and structures were displayed in the window, which Sherlock showed a momentary interest in before pushing the door open.

A bell rang as we entered the shop.

"Morning," said the shop assistant.

"Do you sell statues like this one?" Sherlock held up his phone, on which was displayed a picture of a statue identical to the smashed ones.

"Sorry, we've already sold our last two." Sherlock's face showed well-acted disappointment.

"I was just wondering, was it just these two you ordered or were there more?"

The shop assistant had to call the manager, who informed us that those two had been the only ones. "And just one more question – when did you place the order for them?"

We had to wait a few minutes while the manager checked the records, during which time Sherlock examined some of the paintings and I watched a dog sniff around outside the window. "Three weeks ago."

"Thank you for your time," said Sherlock, and we exited the shop.

Outside, Sherlock rubbed his hands in a satisfied manner. "We're almost there…we know the other ones were ordered in by Mr Morse Hudson. All we have to do now is visit the manufacturers and check if they _are _from the same batch. I've already got an appointment. Then I want to visit Bart's morgue and have a look at this dead man."

"Will you need me?"

"For the morgue? Yes. For this, no. Why?"

"I wanted to visit the library."

"Oh," Sherlock looked at me strangely. "By all means, yes. I'll meet you there, one O'clock."

I entered the library, went to the reception desk and sought out an assistant. "I've got a book reference but no title…" I jotted down the numbers, which the assistant scrutinised. "Hmmm. 'MJL'…" She shook her head. "Nope, sorry – doesn't ring a bell. You're welcome to search the library catalogue though. Have you used it before?"

I had done, and made my way to the computers.

My first tactic was to enter in the year of publication: 2010. Sixty six pages of results came up and I smiled: I was not going to get very far at this rate. There was a 'contains word or phrase' search box as well, so I typed in "M + J + L", which narrowed it down to 42 pages of results. Going into the advanced search function I entered all the information, but my eye was drawn to two more parameters that I hadn't thought of: I could limit the length and I could enter the publication type. Well, it was over one hundred pages long, making it at least a novella. I entered in the minimum number of pages, and changed the publication type from 'All' to 'Book'. This produced thirty one pages of results, and I realised that I would now just have to scroll through them and see if anything jumped out.

I was on page sixteen and had found nothing that looked very likely – the closest result being "Morag Jemison's Lunches", when I heard running feet. The stern voice of a security guard carried across the room, followed Sherlock's voice saying "Ok, ok – I'll pay. I just need to find my friend, he's in here." I made my way over just as Sherlock handed a five pound note to the security guard. "Turn up earlier next time, you just lost me five pounds," he greeted me. I grabbed a sandwich from the Greggs next door, much to Sherlock's annoyance, and we hailed a cab.

"You haven't had a thing since breakfast yesterday," I said reproachfully, as I munched.

"Eating's boring. Anyway, digestion slows me down," Sherlock replied.

"How can digestion slow you down? Your brain uses six grams of glucose an hour when you're concentrating!"

"John, as a doctor you should know how it works. Eating sends blood to the digestive system and away from the brain. Therefore the brain slows down when you eat."

"That's complete rubbish," I told him. "By that argument you might as well not _walk _when you're solving a case because it sends blood to your legs. You have enough blood to go around, Sherlock. _More_ than enough."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing! Except that you should eat."

"Well you're wrong, at least in my case. I've always worked a lot faster on an empty stomach." I knew there was no point in pushing the subject further. "Anyway," added Sherlock, "I spoke to the manager and the statues_ were _all from the same batch, as I predicted. Not only that but he recognised the man in the photo – an Italian that everyone just called Beppo because his surname was unpronounceable. I texted Lestrade and did some research in the taxi. A terrible temper but highly skilled at his work. He'd previously been in prison for knifing a man, but got out on a technical clause."

When we arrived at the morgue Molly was nowhere to be seen. When we enquired as to her whereabouts we were bluntly informed that she had a job interview in Leeds. I saw a fleeting look of shock cross Sherlock's face. In her place was a young, very pompous doctor. He shook each of us warmly by the hand (much to Sherlock's annoyance), and introduced himself as Doctor Clarence Agaar, BSc, MSc, pHD. He had been told about Sherlock but I had to introduce myself. "Doctor John Watson."

"A full medical doctor or just a GP?"

"A full doctor. An army surgeon actually – I served in Afghanistan."

"Oh, I see. And what was your pHD in?"

"The effects of the 5HT antagonist levipramol on patients with Huntington's chorea. You?"

"The relationship between the clinical effects of delayed auditory feedback and medical history in the childhood stutterer. The Medical Journal of London called my work 'Ground-Breaking.' Of course, now I'm a lecturer, teacher and researcher here." He folded his arms and smiled.

"And I'm the world's only consulting detective. I created the position for myself," interjected Sherlock.

"Oh. Well come on, then." Doctor Agaar turned and led the way to the unfortunate victim, leaving Sherlock speechless with mortification.

Sherlock's annoyance soon dissipated when he saw the body. His face broke into a wide grin and his eyes sparkled. "I know this man," he said, took out his phone and brought up a picture. "Piedro Vennuci. He was in prison six times for assault. Part of a gang of street robbers. They were at large for two years and then the police broke them up. Half of them are still in prison."

"Excuse me," piped up Doctor Agaar, and Sherlock looked up with some irritation. "Can you not do that in here please? It interferes with medical equipment."

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "_Molly_ never minds." And with a slight flush on each cheek, he turned off the phone. "Come on, John, there's nothing else here," he said, and with that he made for the exit.


	34. Birthday Greetings

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

You can't escape it – and it hasn't escaped us. Have a good day. "The Wall" – I know it's not what you usually listen to, but give it a try anyway. I think you might like it.

_**Posted by Molly Hooper, Courtesy of John H. Watson**_

Happy birthday, Sherlock!

_**Posted by G. Lestrade, Courtesy of John H. Watson**_

Happy birthday. Three consecuetive murders…in a nudist colony. It was the best I could get at short notice.

_**Posted by M. Hudson, Courtesy of John H. Watson**_

Happy birthday, dear – there's lemon cake downstairs! Of course, I expect you're working on a case as I type, but it's there if you want it. Just for today I will be your housekeeper.

_**Posted by Mycroft Holmes**_

Sherlock, have a happy birthday, which for you no doubt means work. John, save me some cake, if he's consented to have any, that is.

_**Posted by Sarah Sawyer**_

Happy birthday, Sherlock. If you know London as well as you claim, maybe you can complete the jigsaw - I couldn't. Two thousand pieces should keep you free from boredom for a good few hours._**  
**_

_**Posted by Sally Donovan, Courtesy of John H. Watson**_

So, Freak. You have a birthday. And a reflection too…maybe. No doubt you'll be down here sometime over this nudist colony case. I won't comment, just this once.

_[SH: Well. There is still cake – or half a cake now. Lestrade – I will observe the nudist colony very closely.]_

_[SH: That is to say…I will observe the nudist colony _**case** _very closely]_


	35. Matching Mycroft's Gift: Beppo

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

"What now?" I asked Sherlock, as we made our way out through the sliding doors of the hospital.

"Now we wait," he answered shortly.

"What for?"

"For the next robbery. There's a Napoleon at 6 Laburnum Villa. Chances are the thief will break in there tonight. Lestrade's meeting us at the flat. He texted – says he's got news for us, and I need to discuss the plan with you both anyway."

Lestrade was waiting for us outside when we arrived back at Baker Street. We made our way up to the living room. "Well?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, as I made him coffee.

"Well…I have traced the dead man – Pietro Vennuci."

"Good. I knew it was him."

"And I've found a motive for the crime. Apparently this Beppo and Vennuci were two of a gang, and Beppo gave them up. Most of the gang are still in prison, but Vennuci got out and tracked down Beppo to get his revenge. Beppo knew about this and was on the run, but Vennuci caught up with him and in the fight Beppo slit his throat. Bit of a disappointment really."

"There's just one tiny problem," said Sherlock, picking up his violin and sitting it on his knee.

"Which is what?"

"Where do the statues fit in?"

"Statues! Look, the statues are nothing – stop fixating on them! Vandalism, that's all."

"A man on the run who already has an extensive criminal record doesn't risk housebreaking without a good reason." Sherlock plucked a little tune as Lestrade spoke.

"Well you do what you like. I'm stationing the force outside his hostel tonight."

"You won't get him…" murmured Sherlock in a singsong voice, intent on his tune.

"And why's that?"

"Because tonight he's off to burgle number 6 Laburnum Villa. Don't worry, I warned the residents. The point is, go to the hostel and you'll definitely miss him. Come with us and I'll introduce you."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, trying to think of a retort. Finally he gave up. "What time?"

"Meet us there at ten, and bring reinforcements. Meanwhile get some sleep. It'll be a long night."

Sherlock was edgy all afternoon, even though he kept telling me to get rest because of the long vigil ahead. He would pace around, gaze out of the window, play his violin in short bursts, snap at me when I tried to speak to him, and log on and off the internet. As for me, I surreptitiously continued my search for MJL using google. We left at half nine in the evening and took a cab to Laburnum Villa. Lestrade was waiting for us. "Are you sure about this?"

Sherlock nodded, staring at the house. "He'll go in at one of the windows," he said quietly. "We'll wait behind the adjoining hedge and when we see him go up the path and in we can sneak round and get him. But we might have to wait all night."

"Brilliant," grumbled Lestrade.

"Cold." I added.

"We'll have to be quiet," said Sherlock pointedly.

Two hours crept by. I took out my phone but Sherlock grabbed it from me and pocketed it before I could turn it on. I was going to whisper an angry protest, but he put his finger to his lips and glared at me. I folded my arms and tried to distract myself by thinking of clarinet pieces I knew. Eventually, Sherlock drew a short, sharp breath and I knew he had heard something. We all stood stock still, and soon we saw a figure vault over the gate and run across the lawn. We stole round silently, just in time to see him clambering in the downstairs window. "Right," said Lestrade, and we tiptoed up and hid behind the side of the house. A minute later the figure re-appeared, carrying the statue. He placed it on the step, directly under door-lamp and, picking up one of the stones that lined the garden path, brought it down upon the statue several times. We stole up behind him and Sherlock pounced. The man roared and flung him backwards with a blow to the face, but by then Lestrade's policemen had cornered off all the exits. I leapt forward and put the man in an arm lock while Sherlock pushed his wrists together, and Lestrade snapped handcuffs on him. By this time the couple who lived in the house had come out to investigate the commotion, and we all had a good look at our captive.

It was Beppo, without a doubt. He grown a beard since the picture had been taken, and his hair was a good deal longer, but the scar down his nose was unmistakable.

"You'll get no questions from me," he said, scowling at us.

"We'll see about that when you're up at the station," said one of the policemen, and with that they led him to the police car.

"We did everything you asked. Left the window unlocked and the door lamp on and everything," said the wife.

"You did very well," said Lestrade. When the policemen were out of earshot, he turned to Sherlock who was kneeling by the remains of the statue, examining the pieces as he had done before. "Ok, you were right," he said quietly.

"Sherlock, pinch the bridge of your nose and lean back," I told him, seeing blood dripping onto his coat and hands. "Come inside, have some refreshments and get cleaned up," suggested the husband. Sherlock looked up at Lestrade, the husband and me, and for once made no objection.

Sherlock kept forgetting to pinch the bridge of his nose and bend over the basin, as he explained how he knew Beppo would come to Laburnum Villa that night. "The only two remaining statues were the one here and another in Leeds. Since the thief was evidently based in London I predicted they would go for the nearer onefirst." He finished his tea and stood up. "Can we go now? It's not bleeding anymore. Much."

"Thanks again," I said to the couple as we left.

Standing on the pavement outside the house, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well again I'm – I'm lost for words. Don't ask me to take the credit."

"Take the credit."

"No. It feels fraudulent."

"You identified the dead man and investigated the initial breakages. You organised the policemen around the house. You handcuffed the thief and you'll be the one questioning him. Take the credit, but not yet."

"Why not?"

"I contacted the owner of the sixth statue as soon as I knew where it was, and they've agreed to swap it for an identical one, courtesy of me. If all goes to plan they'll get it in the post tomorrow, and a colleague of mine will bring ours down for us to collect. Be at Baker Street three O'clock sharp tomorrow, and I'll make you the most highly regarded DI in the country."


	36. Matching Mycroft's Gift: Breakthrough

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

We both slept until eleven am. Sherlock devoured two croissants in quick succession and was even exhausted enough to spend all morning watching Due South. He perked up after lunch though when we went to the hospital to collect the statue. Sherlock had texted Molly the previous afternoon, and though she hadn't had word back about the job interview, he had obtained her hotel details and plans for returning to London. Subsequently, he had contacted the owner of the final Napoleon and arranged for it to be delivered to Molly's hotel for her to collect before she caught the train back. Molly wasn't working today, but she had volunteered to come to Bart's in order to give us the statue.

It was strange seeing Molly in normal clothes rather than a white coat. Though I knew in principle that she must have a life outside Bart's, I had sort of come to think of her as part of the hospital, therefore subconsciously (and absurdly) imagining that she ate, slept and lived in her laboratory gear. Today she met us in the hospital foyer wearing white canvas slip-on shoes, black jeans and a grey hoodie. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. A handbag was slung over her shoulder, but she also carried a cotton bag which presumably contained the coveted statue.

Sherlock took the bag from her and peeked inside. "Good," he said, and then, "Very well done, Molly. Thank you."

Molly grinned shyly. "I bet it's some kind of terribly important key in disguise or something."

"Well, in the sense that it'll unlock the conclusion of my case and Lestrade's future career, you could call it that."

"Sherlock?" I cut in. He turned to me. "Can't Molly can come back with us and see the case concluded?" Sherlock hesitated, in a social dilemma. On the one hand he owed it to her, and on the other he probably felt a little uncomfortable with the idea of her being in his flat. "After all, she did take it all the way from Leeds and come here with it specially," I pressed.

Sherlock fidgeted, and finally gave way. "Oh very well," he said, resignedly. "By the way," he added after a slightly awkward pause. "Did you hear back from them? About the interview."

"Oh, that. Yes, I did."

"And…?"

"I didn't get it." Sherlock's face was inscrutable. Molly continued: "I don't think I was confident enough. I just clammed up, and when they asked me how good a scientist I was I – I – I didn't know what to say! I mean, what _was_ I supposed to say without looking big headed? And I'm not _that _brilliant. I mean, I do my job but I'm nothing special… Anyway, I'm fine here for now. Hope I do better next time, eh?"

"No." said Sherlock, turning away. Molly looked confused, but I knew exactly what he meant. As we made our way towards the waiting cab I saw his mask crumble briefly into an expression of immense relief.

Back at the flat Sherlock instructed Molly to take my laptop off the desk, bring it through to the kitchen and get him a dishtowel. I was told to fetch his riding crop, which I knew lived in his room leaning against his bedside table. When I returned he had dragged the desk into the centre of the living room, laid the dishtowel over it and placed the statue on the dishtowel. "Good," he said to me. "Put that beside the statue.

"Some kind of magic trick?" I wondered out loud semi-seriously, catching Molly's eye. "Now what?"

"Now we wait," said Sherlock, picking up his violin.

Two scherzos later there was a buzz on the intercom and subsequently Lestrade came up the stairs and into the living room. He eyed the desk and the items on it, and dubiously made no comment. Sherlock wrapped the statue up in the dishtowel and, with sudden, dramatic ferocity that made Molly gasp, he picked up the riding crop and brought it crashing down on the statue once, twice, thrice. He then started rooting around in the fragments, his breathing shallow and excited.

Suddenly he yelled "YES!", plunged his hand into the wreckage and drew out a sparkling blue gemstone about the size of a marble. "The Charity Diamond," he said quietly, holding it out in the palm of his hand for us all to see.

So dramatic and unexpected was this revelation that Molly spontaneously broke into applause. Lestrade and I, in spite of ourselves, immediately joined in. Sherlock's facial expressions were priceless. Blank astonishment first of all, then a grin and then – wonder of all wonders – he went red!

A few seconds later he collected himself and explained how he had known the diamond would be in this particular statue. "You remember, Lestrade? The burglary – Italy, 2007? Vennuci, or at least one of his henchmen, evidently got hold of the diamond. They questioned him but he was cunning – they couldn't pin the theft on him. Anyway Vennuci must have set Beppo the task of getting the diamond out of the country until he could reclaim it, no doubt promising him a share of the money. Beppo guarded it very closely, keeping it on him at all times. While he was working for Gelder and Co. he was stupid enough to knife another worker. He knew he only had a small window of time before the police came to get him, and he needed to hide the diamond. He did this by pressing it into the base of a semi-soft plaster statue – one of a batch, and smearing the plaster over it. While he was held in custody the statues were dried and shipped to the shops and customers. That's why he only ever stole that one particular item from each house, why he smashed each one almost immediately and why he did so in a lighted area. And he killed Vennuci in self-defence: He was on his trail, presumably because he held Beppo responsible for the loss of the diamond.

"Lestrade – I knew as soon as you told me about the previous breakages that there had to be more to the robberies than met the eye. Nobody travels across continents and kills and housebreaks repeatedly and methodically just for a bit of petty vandalism. When the dead man turned out to be Vennuci I knew it was the diamond. By tracing the statues back to the factory I confirmed that they were all from the same batch, and I found out the addresses of the final two. I've said before that I never guess. Well between us there actually was a tiny bit of a gamble with Laburnum Villa: I had no way of knowing whether the diamond had been in Horace Harker's statue. If it had been, Beppo wouldn't have needed to try another robbery. But it was a choice between risking that and abandoning the case. Anyway, it all worked out in the end: Beppo is confined and the diamond is here."

Once at the end of his monologue, Sherlock's attitude changed from dramatic to exhausted but highly satisfied. Lestrade whistled, and then leaned thoughtfully on the desk. "You know," he said after some seconds, "I've never really given you the acknowledgement you deserve. Not professional – I mean, I know you don't care about that. But I've always underestimated you. Thought you had chance on your side more often than not. But now I understand – there's method in your madness, Mr Holmes. I don't say this to many people – but the police aren't jealous or suspicious of you. No, we're _proud_ of you. And yeah, you're a complete nutcase – but in your own way you've got more guts and ingenuity than all of us put together. If I went in there tomorrow and told them what you did, there wouldn't be a single one of them who wouldn't be glad to shake your hand."

The silence was complete. Sherlock swallowed. His eyes were unusually bright and his mouth was unusually tight. "Thank you," he managed after a moment. Then again, rather huskily: "Thank you." And he held out his hand for Lestrade to shake. Then, not meeting any of our eyes, he forcibly dragged the desk back to its usual place , picked the dishcloth up by the corners and disappeared into the kitchen. With a nod to Molly and me, Lestrade departed.

Molly and I stood outside while she waited for her bus. "When I told him I didn't get the job and then said hope I do better next time, Sherlock said 'No'. What did he mean?" She asked.

"That he missed you – well, his version of it at least." I replied.

"He did?"

"Yep. Must have gotten used to you."

"Well, perhaps he has," she said, grinning. "And perhaps I have too. I mean, the more I think about it work would be – well – _dull_, really,without you two popping in sometimes." I chuckled in response. Molly paused. "Who stood in for me?" she asked, tentatively.

"A young doctor. Agaar. _Incredibly _arrogant."

"Oh, him. He never gets off my back. He keeps trying to impress me. I think he _fancies _me." She shuddered. "And he _worships _the Medical Journal of London…"

"Oh yeah. He was going on and on about his 'ground breaking' work, and… Hang on. Hold everything…" I said, realisation dawning and my heart giving a giant leap.

"What?"

"Medical Journal of London – MJL!"

"What about it?"

"MJL '10, **70 **(2) 130-145! I should have realised! Medical Journal of London 2010, volume 70, issue 2, pages 130-145. It's referring to a research paper! Molly, can you access journals from the hospital?"

"Well yes. Because it's a teaching hospital it has a library with a massive archive."

"Will it be open now?"

"Yeah – til six."

"Have you got an hour?"

"I've no plans."

"Good, then let's order a cab. I'll pay."

Molly led me down several corridors to the library. This was a huge chamber lined with computers, with hundreds of shelves in the centre. As we walked past these shelves, Molly whispered to herself. "A to C… D to F…G to I...J to L…M!" With that she disappeared into the space between shelves. I followed and found her scanning an eye down an entire shelf of archived MJL volumes. "Volume 70…issue 2...here we are! August 2010."

Deftly Molly flicked through the pages until she came to page 130.

I read the title of the paper and suddenly everything fell into place – I didn't even have to read any further. As a doctor I should have recognised the different pieces of the puzzle and fitted them together as they were handed to me. But who had sent the email? Not a science student, or they probably would have written the reference in the correct format. And then I remembered where I had seen the username mam2s+m before. Mycroft had CCd her into his first ever email to me, just after I had moved in with Sherlock. Evidently a very remarkable woman: In emailing a coded message she had performed her duty elegantly whilst (as far as possible) avoiding interfering. And in the message she had given me the key to unlocking the story behind the feud, but also the vital link between nearly all of Sherlock's eccentricities. Maria Holmes. Mam to S. and M. 'Mummy'.


	37. Matching Mycroft's Gift: A New Year

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

I didn't talk to Sherlock about my findings straight away. In fact, he himself initiated the conversation that eventually turned to the feud. We were sitting ogling some quiz show at the time. I can't even remember which show now. Neither of us were paying any attention: We were each wrapped in our own thoughts. Sherlock broke the silence.

"Congratulations."

"What?"

"You solved your case."

"What do you mean?"

"For the last few days you've been pursuing a personal project with a specific endpoint – don't think I haven't noticed. You've spent every spare moment poring over either your laptop or your phone. You took down and memorised that username and the code of numbers and letters. When I said the code looked like a book reference you went off to the library instead of coming with me on part of a case when you normally jump at the chance. Then you and Molly went off together to Bart's all of a sudden. The progression of events was very obvious. You found your endpoint at Bart's."

"How do you know?"

"Because now you're relaxing in front of the TV and you haven't touched your laptop or phone since you came back. Also, I know who the email was sent from, obviously, and there's only one reason she'd be so anxious to contact you, or at least _someone_, about me. As to your endpoint, only a few nights ago you asked me about why Mycroft and I don't get on, and then you launched into this investigation. The juxtaposition of the two events was unlikely to be coincidental."

Sherlock turned off the TV and sat back on the sofa, fingertips together. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's your opinion?"

I looked at him hard. "Temporal lobe epilepsy. You don't have it anymore, but you did as a child."

"And how did you come to this conclusion?"

"Well, it was obvious once I'd read the title of the research paper the coded email referred to. The temporal lobes contain structures responsible for memory, understanding, cognition and perception. Your epiphanies – those were seizures. The one with the rubix cube was brought on by intense concentration, and the one in the theatre was brought on by music. Both those things can be triggers for temporal lobe seizures, as can sleep deprivation and the taste and smell of food. But you didn't mind because they gave you intensely ecstatic feelings of tranquillity, vibrancy, peace, clarity and enhanced thought. And the postictal, or recovery phase of the seizure for you, that was the bliss you remembered feeling. You've tried to get those feelings back by honing your skills of observation and deduction, and you also take nicotine and cocaine, the effects of which could conceivably mimic those of your temporal lobe seizures. I suppose you're lucky in a way though - there are people who have really horrible expreiences during a seizure like that.

"Judging by how paranoid about you Mycroft can get, I think your seizures were pretty serious. Mycroft knows they're gone, but part of him is still afraid they'll come back, and for better or worse, that fear overrides his good judgement and logic. That's why he can't leave you alone, and why he wanted to pay me to keep an eye on you. I guess it made it even better in his eyes that I'm a doctor."

"He blamed himself," Sherlock interjected, softly.

"Blamed himself? Why – how could he be to blame?"

"They started when I was six, just after the concussion caused by the barrel mishap."

"Even so, there's no way of knowing for sure if that's what caused them."

"And that's precisely why nothing can convince him that it's not his fault. He was thirteen at the time. He was always such a wild, impulsive child, or so Mummy said. He never thought through his actions or how they would affect people, but when the seizures started he completely changed. He suddenly hated to do anything new, got anxious at the slightest hint of trouble, wanted to be in control of everything and withdrew from the world. And he became very protective of me."

"That's why he guards you so closely then."

"Yes."

"And why you push him away so much, and why that upsets your mother."

"Yes."

"And also why you're so bad at letting people care about you."

"Elaborate."

"Well…all through your life you've been over-protected and smothered. Your family, especially Mycroft, were scared. Scared that you might have a seizure while doing something dangerous, or that doing certain things would bring one on that would kill you or damage your brain. It wasn't that they didn't love you – it was that they loved you almost _too much_. And that made you habitually rebel against any form of love, care and kindness shown towards you. Also, you spent so much time tied to an adult's aprons with nothing much to do, or waiting in hospitals and lying in scanners that you've become phobic about boredom – anyone would under such circumstances. You'll do anything to escape it, even if you risk dying, because you've been there before and in your eyes there are far worse things."

Sherlock nodded, looking at the ceiling with a vulnerable expression on his face. I continued. "Anti-seizure medications often cause spells of dizziness and lethargy. Because of that you probably over-compensated with very concentrated, intense activity in the windows in between, and you've just kept that habit since then. Another thing – your theory that digestion slows you down: Well, I might have been a bit quick in dismissing it – or at least the idea of it. When you have seizures you can sometimes help your brain recover by going into ketogenesis. When you fast, or when you eat lots of fat and almost no carbohydrates, you start to produce ketones which can be used by the brain instead of glucose. For some reason, that often helps to reduce or cure epilepsy. Maybe it helped in your case, making you more alert and helping you to think, but maybe it didn't: A lot of people grow out of epilepsy anyway, so it's hard to say. And finally, temporal lobe epilepsy in particular can sometimes come with a lot of weird side dishes. One of them is problems with sleep - and that can be lots of sleep or no sleep at all. You seem to have the latter: Very shallow sleep, insomnia, frequent waking up and also moving around a lot. Then you can also get unusal behaviour or emotions, for example bipolar or autistic-like behaviour, and occasionally very remarkable, specialised talents like yours." I paused. "Well – that's it. How did I do?"

Sherlock didn't speak for a long time. I began to wonder if Mycroft had been wrong in his email all those months back, saying that nothing could change the affectionate regard in which Sherlock held the person he latched onto. But finally he spoke in a quiet voice. "Thank you, John, for attributing every aspect of my being to the abnormal structure of my temporal lobe cellular membranes."

I hung my head.

"Have you anything more to add?" he asked, with not a little sarcasm.

"Sherlock I…I'm really sorry. All that was tactless and – and – "

"No." he muttered, and sighed. "No no no…You're a doctor and friend – you were bound to find out." He looked straight at me. "They're gone now," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Gone forever, I think. It was just the two. I've been off the medication for over twenty years now. My brain's had just about every battering possible since then."

"It's fine, Sherlock. I know. I believe you."

Sherlock glanced at the floor and appeared momentarily shamed. "John I…I probably should have told you about it earlier." He paused. "It's just that when people have found out they've usually started subconsciously watching out for me, and you know what that'slike. I don't want that. Not now, not ever."

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

"You're an idiot. You do realise that, don't you?" He half-smiled for a second. "People would watch out for you, seizures or not – because they're your _friends_, and that's what friends do. I promise not to infringe on your autonomy – that's one of the first rules of being a doctor, and I think it's generally a good rule for life too. And you know I don't go shouting peoples' secrets abroad. But you have to let me have _my_ autonomy too – and that includes voicing things that I think are important."

"Can you make Mycroft see sense?"

"He's not doing it deliberately – he just doesn't want to lose his brother!" I stopped. "God knows I would've given _everything_ for a family who cared so much…"

"But he_ won't_ lose me!" Sherlock was becoming irritated now.

"Can't you talk to him yourself?" I asked, "From what I see, he really does want the two of you to get along – he seems to have wanted it for years."

Sherlock fiddled with a pencil he'd picked up from the coffee table. "So why won't he come and talk to me? Why does he always go to you instead?"

"Probably because he knows it would only end in arguing."

"Fair point," he conceded. "Well, alright then," he added slowly. "I can try. After all, it's gone on long enough."

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

"One last question. The epiphanies, as you call them. You knew before that they were seizures?"

"Of course."

"And yet you still call them epiphanies." He nodded. I looked incredulous. "You still _believe_ in it all on some level, don't you? You know…_it._"

" '_It', _as you call it, is not logically impossible, therefore yes – I haven't eliminated it." He sat back down again.

"But it _is _logically impossible. I mean, science has _proven _that conclusively: Consciousness andspirituality come from the brain – from places like the temporal lobes and the pineal gland – not from some metaphysical superpower!"

"Well," Sherlock said, thoughtfully. "Food for thought: Science has clarified the mechanisms behind visual hallucinations and illusions. Those centres of the brain have been minutely mapped. You can manipulate them by electrical stimulation. You can damage and destroy them. It's all conclusive proof that vision arises in the brain and is controlled by the brain, as are all forms of perception. It's true the brain can also be tricked and the mind deluded. But does any of that logically disprove the existence of the external world?"

_**Mycroft Holmes (Ghost-Written by John H. Watson)**_

John texted me, asking me to meet him "At the Chinese down the road." Of course, I inquired as to whether the matter was really urgent. My time is very valuable these days given my unique, if minor, position in the British Government. His response was somewhat ambiguous: "Urgent enough."

And so it was that on December the thirty-first at approximately nine fifteen in the evening, I found myself sitting at a table near the window of a small Chinese café, glancing through the pages of a file I had brought with me. At exactly twenty minutes past nine, the door opened and John came in.

"Ah John, so we meet again!" I said to him, shaking his hand. "So, what was it that you wanted to see me about?"

"Well, to thank you for the clarinet of course – that was…I mean I never even…you really shouldn't – "

" – Oh it was nothing, believe me. Sherlock needs a fellow musician and you'll find him a lot easier to live with if you have pass-times in common besides detection."

"True."

"Is there nothing else I can do for you?"

"Yes. I've got something here for you, actually – " He disappeared outside. A minute later he came back in with my brother.

"Sherlock! You're looking well!" I observed Sherlock's mouth tighten momentarily, and the twitch of the eyebrows which signified annoyance. To my surprise however, he managed a smile. Not a big smile, but a real one.

"Um…Mycroft, look…" A faltering Sherlock was unheard of to my knowledge! "I…I know we've had…that is, we've not really got on very well, have we? Over the years. And that was partly – alright, _mostly_ – my fault…" He fidgeted. I watched, fascinated, hardly daring to hope. "And I…I suppose I just thought I should probably, you know, apologise for that. And try and be a bit – well – _nicer _really, to you."

It took a few seconds for me to gather words, and then to trust myself to speak, so I nodded in the meantime. He held out his gloved hand and I shook it automatically.

"Well…" I said at last, "That was certainly unexpected…" Sherlock's tense face relaxed into a smile, "…But most welcome. I am very glad you've come round to my way of thinking at last. I always knew we should be on the same side."

"You're a pretentious git," he declared.

"And you are the most idiotic person I know," I retaliated.

"Yeah, I've been told that a lot lately," he said, frowning in a bemused fashion.

John cleared his throat and we both jumped, having forgotten he was still there. "I just wanted to point out…it's New Year's Eve. We could get out now while the going's good or risk getting caught up in a New Year's party." I shuddered at the thought of that, and Sherlock looked equally horrified.

"Yeah," he said, "Good idea, John."

We walked up the road together and then parted company at the junction. "We'll first foot you." John said, handing me an envelope. Sherlock started to protest about the boring nature of first-footers, but John drowned him out. Extraordinary man.

As soon as they were out of sight and earshot I glanced around to check the street was deserted, and then opened the envelope. It contained a slip of white paper, with a simple, three word message, now safe in my scrapbook: "Happy Christmas – John."


	38. A Study in Socialising

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

Soon after my reconciliation with Mycroft it occurred to me that I should try and learn to blend in a bit better with other people. Not that I particularly wanted to, but being able to do so would certainly be useful for my cases. Admittedly I coped with Christmas somewhat better than I had imagined I would, but that was with John and Mrs Hudson. Real people are different.

Parties and other gatherings may afford an excellent opportunity to overhear information that nobody would generally offer up. People are inebriated and inebriation is the most famous cure for reticence and inhibition. Furthermore, I reasoned, if I could at least behave in the manner of a friend and not just a colleague perhaps I would better attract clients.

I decided to speak to John about it. "John?" He was on the laptop, updating his infamous blog. He looked up. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Socialise successfully and unobtrusively with more than two people for over thirty minutes?"

He didn't answer for a second. I think my question stumped him a bit.

"I'm not sure…I think I just do it, I suppose. It comes naturally."

"No, not you specifically. One. Anyone. How does _one_ do it?"

"You mean you're asking for socialisation lessons?"

"Well…yes."

I was beginning to feel rather ignorant and resented it. "It's a simple question, John," I muttered petulantly.

"…But a tough one to answer," he retaliated. "I'm not sure if I even _can_ answer it, Sherlock. I mean really the best way to learn to socialise is to just have a go.

"Have a go? What do you mean?" I asked suspiciously.

"Just that. Find a group of people and try and be nice."

"Easier said than done," I mused, "And very, very boring."

"Well," said John, closing the laptop and getting up, "Like it or not, there it is."

He made his way through to the kitchen and put the kettle on – that seems to be a compulsive thing he does even if he's not going to have a drink. I followed him. "Alright. So I have to practice. Where am I going to find a large group of people who know me well enough that my presence within the group would not in itself be an oddity?"

John began washing up, and I without thinking picked up a dish towel. "Well, there's a social gathering that Sarah's sister is hosting to celebrate the beginning of the year. We're invited."

"And what's that?"

"They do it every January to start the year off for everyone on a good foot. They host it at her sister's house; some country village near Gatwick airport. You can get a train there – it's a twenty minute journey apparently."

"Wonderful…no escape."

"Ok, look, if you're going to come along just try not to agonise and strategise over it for hours beforehand. It's a party. Supposed to be _fun_."

"Who's going to be there?"

"Well, me for one. Sarah, Sarah's sister and her husband, their two kids. Harry's been invited – "

" – Harry your sister?"

"Yep. A couple of neighbours…oh and Sally Donovan."

"_Sergeant_ Sally Donovan?" He nodded.

My skin crawled. "Why would anybody invite Sally Donovan to a party?"

"They went to school together, remember? According to Sarah her mother's had medical problems for years – it's been tough on her. Well, you know how Sarah is – can't turn her back on someone in need."

"Sarah's too kind for her own good." I paused. "No wonder she was drawn to you."

John looked surprised and touched, but hid it under an admonishment: "Are you just holding that dish towel or are you planning on drying up?"

-/-/-/-

We took the train out. I could scarcely believe what I was about to do, and kept reminding myself that it was for my work. After all, I had studied the subjects at university that would equip me for detection, and this was just like another one of those. The house was a moderately large, fairly rambling old place with a pleasingly overgrown garden. John rang the bell and turned to me. "Try not to look so grim, Sherlock," he told me.

There were footsteps and Sarah opened the door. "John!" She greeted him and they exchanged a kiss. "And Sherlock!" she added in a delighted voice, shaking my hand. Odd that she should be so welcoming, considering everything she's been through as an indirect consequence of my work.

We were led through to the living room, in which people were sitting, talking. Three people were on the couch, Sarah's sister's husband Tom, and their neighbours Johanna and Matthew. John's own sister Harry was reclining in an armchair chatting to Lucy – Sarah's sister – about a table tennis tournament. Two children – a teenage boy and a small girl of about seven or eight, were playing snap at the coffee table. Sally Donovan was leaning against the mantelpiece idly watching the children. She looked up as we entered and her eyes widened. "_You_!"

"Happy New Year to you too," said John blandly.

Sally Donovan looked a little embarrassed. "Yes, well…" Then with an effort: "Happy New Year, er, John and F…I mean…Sherlock."

Gingerly, I sat down in an armchair. Lucy offered me a glass of wine and after a glance at John I accepted. In the background a compilation CD was playing; something modern – it may have been ABBA. The wine was tangy but sweet, and not at all unpleasant. For a few minutes I just watched everyone else talking, before the small girl came up to me holding a bottle of bubble liquid. "Want to see some bubbles?" she asked.

"He doesn't want to see them, Claire," hissed her brother. I caught Sally Donovan watching me.

"Actually, I _would_ like to see them." I retorted, stiffly. Claire, after a slight hesitation, dipped the stick in and blew a stream of bubbles over me. "Very nice." I commented, and she grinned, showing two gaps where her front teeth should have been. She seemed to wait for me to do something. I stuck a finger through a bubble, which promptly burst, making her giggle.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Sherlock Holmes."

She leaned on the arm of my chair. "Oh." Again she seemed to want me to do or say something, but I didn't. "I play the piano," she volunteered.

"I play the violin." I countered.

"I'm up to grade two. Are you good at playing?"

I wasn't entirely sure how to answer so subjective a question. "I can play by ear, music and memory. I also make up my own pieces," I said at last. "Does that make me good?"

Claire wrinkled her nose in thought. Finally she smiled. "Yes."

"Claire!"

She turned towards her brother. "What?"

"Wanna come on the computer?"

She turned back towards me. "Joe and me – "

" – 'Joe and _I_'– "

" – We're going on the computer. Want to play?"

"Not just now," I said, and watched them leave the room.

Idle chatting is an extraordinary pastime. One is encouraged to lie, for example; "Yes, I love this sort of thing", say things that are completely unrelated to that which proceeded for example; "No, I didn't watch Strictly over Christmas. Well, I'd better take the food round again…", and ask questions that you don't want to know the answers to, for example; "What do you do?" You can't make any observations and deductions out loud either, because it unnerves people and spoils the atmosphere. I was extremely thankful when Harry suggested we all play some card games.

The first game we played was called Hearts. In Lucy's words hearts are bad, the Queen of Spades is very bad, and everything else is neutral. Nobody but you must see your cards, and before the game begins you must choose three to pass to the player on your left.

The object of the game is to be the person at the end with the lowest number of bad points. The first person has to put a card face up on the table. Then going round the players each one has to put a card down from the same suit. If they haven't got a card from the same suit then, and only then, are they allowed to simply put a random card down.

Once all the players have put a card down the player who put down the highest valued card from the starting suit gains all those cards. These then sit face down in front of that player. The skill lies in choosing the value of the card you put down, thus controlling which rounds you win and lose. Nevertheless, there is an element of luck involved in which cards you are dealt and passed at the start of the game, and at times you have only one card from the required suit which you therefore are obliged to play. One other arbitrary rule is that whilst hearts are all individually bad, if you end up with _all_ of them, that is very good.

We played three games of hearts. The first time we played, I did moderately well, gaining four hearts and ultimately managing to foist the Queen of Spades onto John. He merely gave me a resigned look, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

The second game I lost spectacularly, gaining the Queen of Spades at the end of the very first round, and garnering all but one of the hearts throughout the course of the game. I think I took it with extremely good grace, but the apprehensive looks the others gave me indicated that I must have looked pretty cross. The final game I won, and I won it by gaining all the hearts. I could do this because Matthew so very kindly furnished me with the King, Queen and Ace of hearts while I had the ten and nine anyway.

After Hearts it was decided by all that we should play Trivial Pursuit. John offered to pair up with me given my principle of deleting all facts that do not pertain to detection. I found it extremely boring, as the facts held little interest for me, John answered most of our questions and people took so long answering that it took a good ten minutes to circulate round all the players. I practiced a little observation of the room in the meantime.

It was obvious that Lucy and Tom were well off. Had there been no other clues the size and style of the house would have indicated that. However, the sofa had a velvety, pale blue throw draped over it, and the room had matching curtains. Only people who don't have to worry about money decorate their house with pale coloured, delicate materials when there are children around. There were many framed, technical drawings of buildings hung around the room. This suggested to me, in combination with the good income and the dent in between Tom's index finger and thumb where a pencil habitually rested, that he worked as an engineer. There were photos on the walls of the children; some on holiday, some in the house and some in the garden at home. Their mother was in very few of them, which suggested that she had taken them and was therefore with them in the mid-morning to mid-afternoon – the times suggested by the lighting in the outdoor photographs. From this I could infer that in all probability she did not work, as a working person would most likely be engaged in their job at that sort of time. Tom as an engineer could conceivably work at home or in an office, but given his manner, his immaculately shaven chin and his precisely cut hair, the probability was that he worked in an office, especially if Lucy cared for the children.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John's voice brought me back to the game. "One for you – the chemical formula for the hydrocarbon family known as alkanes."

"CnH2n+2," I replied in a monotone, earning us a slice of pie in our game piece. Of course we didn't win Trivial Pursuit, but by now I was beginning to relax a little. The wine had certainly helped. Having finished, we began to discuss what to play now. "I know," said Lucy, "We could have a game of Cluedo!" This woke me up with rather a jolt, as I realised everyone was looking at me. "We _could_," agreed Sarah. "After all, Sherlock's a detective – "

" – Consulting detective – "

" – Consulting detective. It would be the perfect game for him!"

I have come across Cluedo before. It is the game where you role two dice to move your character and a selection of weapons through the rooms of a mansion (drawn onto the game board), and try and deduce, with the help of cards, who killed the victim where, and how. It is based on the logical elimination of weapons, people and rooms that were _not_ involved, and in that respect I have no problem with it. However there is very little proper detection in it, not a lot of indisputable data and an element of chance as to how fast the details fall into your grasp, as well as _what_ details become available to you.

This all puts me in a very difficult situation, not just because I need hard, fast facts to be good at anything, but because there is the unavoidable possibility that I will end up placing myself in a position that reflects badly on either my ability or my motivation as a detective. Firstly, if I refuse to play I look like I'm not suited to my work: By most peoples' standards a detective ought to love that kind of game. Secondly if I lose I am in an even worse position because I look like I can't do my job. Therefore if I play it I absolutely _have_ to win in order to maintain my reputation. Winning, as I have already said, is by no means guaranteed, for reasons beyond my control.

I dithered as they set up the board, and then hit on a solution. Surreptitiously I confiscated several of the little plastic characters, the candlestick, the rope, the lead piping and one of the two dice.

"That's funny," muttered Lucy, frowning in puzzlement, "Half the pieces seem to have gone." She shook her head as though to wake herself up. "I could have _sworn_ we had a full set – it's _new_!" I saw Sally Donovan throw a suspicious glance in my direction. She may be extremely rude and irritating, but she's certainly not stupid. What could she say though without looking like she was arbitrarily targeting me? For a while we all scrambled on the floor and round the room, searching for the missing pieces (or in my case pretending to do so), before Lucy called out, "Never mind, we'll play something else instead."

Claire had come back through by this stage. "Can we play Murder in the Dark?" she asked. Everyone except for me jumped at the idea: Exactly the same difficulties lie with Murder in the Dark, or wink murder, or any of these mystery games. And Claire was here which made it even worse. To lose a game to strangers is one thing, but to lose to a child is just a joke. And in front of Donovan, to make matters infinitely worse. She would certainly spread the word when she got the chance. Worst of all, there's nothing to confiscate with wink murder or Murder in the Dark, which left me with no escape plan.

A vice began slowly to tighten in my chest and my hands felt damp and clammy. "Murder in the Dark it is!" said Lucy, and everyone reacted with great enthusiasm. As for me, I suddenly seemed to be unable to move and my stomach was beginning to hurt. Of course everyone agreed that I should be the detective, and I couldn't very well refuse for reasons outlined above. Then they drew lots for who would be the murderer. I was told to stand by the door and turn the lights off when I was ready. It was there that I realised the landing was dark, the light having been turned off by Claire when she came through. Suddenly there was a means of escape! Once it was dark I waited for a few seconds while people milled around before quietly slipping out.

Once in the hall I made my way swiftly and silently up the corridor and out into the garden. My mouth was very dry so I imagined a steaming cup of tea, inhaling the vapours and preparing to drink it in order to trick my mouth into producing more saliva. This worked to a certain extent. Then I made my decision: I had explored the world of chatting and socialising and it just wasn't worth it. After all, if a case required such skills I could easily get John to do it for me. It would be alright: I could tell him what to look for and what to say if need be. He may be an idiot but he's still one of the best people I've encountered. Having made this decision there was no reason to go back in to the others, so I decided to while away the rest of the evening exploring the garden.

I wandered across the lawn to a weedy pond with a tree nearby which had a swing hanging from it. I sat on the swing and pushed back and forth with my right foot. A few white geese were visible on the far bank, folded up, roosting. One of them ruffled its feathers, took its head out from under its wing, looked at me and honked quietly, before tucking down again and going back to sleep. I heard the grinding, rising noise of a plane's engine and saw wing-shaped lights ascending into the sky. The swing seat was damp and cold so I stood up.

Around the back of the house I found a vegetable patch. I scooped up a handful of soil. It was cold, damp, grainy and smelled musty and slightly alkaline. Judging by these properties I guessed that parts of the vegetable patch had been used to grow potatoes recently.

Potatoes are not as dull as they may at first appear. They can yield a potentially fatal nerve toxin, and if someone dies as a result the death can simply be attributed to eating the wrong parts of the plant. If I were a murderer I would certainly be tempted to take advantage of this property. Furthermore, if you can recognise various soils it can help pinpoint the locality of the killer and thus narrow down a list of suspects. In theory, that is: I have not yet encountered a potato-murderer, though I hope I will some day.

I heard the front door open and footsteps approach. Fast, light footsteps, but not frantic. Therefore most probably someone with short legs. A child. I turned and saw Claire.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," I said.

"Why did you run away? You're supposed to work out who's the murderer."

"Because I'm a high functioning sociopath. I don't mix with other people. I don't like them."

"Oh." She thought about this for a bit. "Do you like animals?"

"Some. Dogs can be useful."

"Have you got a dog of your own?"

"No. I _had_ one. Not anymore."

"Oh." Claire fidgeted uneasily. "I'm supposed to find you and get you."

This made me smile, which made her awkwardness melt away. "And why am I to be found and got, exactly?"

"Because they want you to join in."

"Why?"

"Well…because you're their friend, aren't you?"

Children are most definitely not _real _people. There was something compelling about this one's genuineness, as well as the fact that she took the responsibility of finding and getting me so seriously.

"Will there be more Murder in the Dark?" I asked.

"Well, they would _like _a game with you. That's why they wanted me to find and get you."

I pondered for a moment, and then inspiration struck. "Do you like the idea of being a detective, Claire?"

Claire blinked. "Yes, I think so..."

"Well then. I'll allow you to find me and get me if you take my place as the detective during the game. We'll say I'm training you up, like an apprentice."

She beamed and nodded. I stood up, brushed the soil off my jacket and we walked up the path and in together, Claire leading me by the wrist.

"Sherlock!" I nodded at the gathered company. Lucy had the tact not to mention my brief departure, and the others followed suit. "So, will you play one more game of Murder in the Dark with us?"

"One game," I said. "But before we begin, may I nominate Claire, my trusty apprentice, to be detective?"

Claire grinned and swayed back and forth shyly, hugging my left arm tightly.

I was suddenly able to relax. I would not be forced to deduce from insufficient data; this was the last game, so I didn't need to worry about getting picked as the detective after this; Claire would feel really good about herself if she correctly guessed the murderer, and if I could give her any hints I would do so, thus preserving my reputation. What I had not banked upon was the drawing of lots for the murderer. This was done by picking slips of paper out of an empty crisp bowl, and one of those slips had an 'X' on it, denoting the murderer. We each drew our lot. I unfolded mine, and though my countenance is usually impassive naturally, it was an effort for me not to smile as I saw the 'X' on my piece of paper.

"Lights going out…now!" The room was plunged into darkness and we all milled around the room. I bumped into a few people and on the third occasion I leaned down and whispered "Dead" in their ear. There was a familiar yell and I turned on my heel, hearing a muffled thunk as the body hit the floor.

"Freeze!" Claire shouted, and we stopped in our tracks as the light came on. I snuck a glance over my shoulder and saw John sprawled on the floor. I was glad it was only a game.

John opened his eyes and rolled over to look at the scene. "You're supposed to be dead – keep still!" my apprentice reproached him sharply.

"Oops, sorry…" said John and lay back, occasionally opening half an eye to see what was happening. Claire prowled around the room, eyeing up each of the players in turn. Most of them held her gaze, attempting not to laugh.

"Johanna!" demanded Claire, pointing a finger at her. "Where were you at the time of the murder!"

"I was standing behind this coffee table, minding my own business." Claire narrowed her eyes at her. "Is that the truth?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm" said Claire, stroking an imaginary beard and moving on. She arrived at Harry next. "Harry! Did you bump into anyone in the dark?"

"No." Harry wasn't even trying to quell her mirth.

"Is that the truth?"

"Yes."

"Was Johanna telling the truth?"

"I don't know," said Harry, putting her wine glass down in order to laugh more freely. I saw John on the floor looking a little embarrassed and briefly caught his eye.

"Sherlock!" I felt a poke in the stomach, and Claire was standing masterfully before me, fully half my height.

"Claire." I replied, deadpan.

"Where were you when the murder took place?"

"I was standing with my back to everyone, like this." I said, turning my back on the scene.

"And why was that?"

"Because I wanted to walk in this direction."

"Hmmm…" said Claire, once more stroking her imaginary beard and screwing up her eyes.

"How many people did you bump into?" she asked, eventually.

"No-one," I lied. Claire nodded, then spun round dramatically and pointed at Tom. "Dad was it you?"

"Nope. Not me," said Tom. An incorrect guess meant the lights were turned out again and the game continued, with John sitting out being dead. We stumbled around in the dark once again. This time my leg bumped the coffee table, knocking over a glass of something. I managed to catch it before there was a proper spillage, but splashed some in the process. At the same moment I ran headlong into someone, leant down and whispered "Dead" in their ear. There was a bloodcurdling female shriek and I darted in the opposite direction.

Again we all froze as Claire turned on the lights. I glanced at the 'corpse' and realised immediately that Sally Donovan, the 'late' Sally Donovan, would never, ever let me forget this evening.

She thrashed and yelled on the sofa, milking her moment in the spotlight until Claire told her firmly to keep quiet and 'act dead'. I turned away and tried not to smile. I snuck a glance at John. He was staring fixedly at part of my coat, but stopped as soon as he realised I was looking in his direction. This time Claire rounded on me first. "Sherlock, where were you when the murder took place?"

"I was walking in the opposite direction."

"You said that last time!"

"Well that's what was happening last time."

She wandered off, and caught site of some drops of red wine as she rounded the coffee table.

"Harry, did you spill that as you bumped the table?"

"I never went near the coffee table!" Harry protested.

"You'd have heard her giggling if she had," pointed out John.

"Shush!" I mouthed at him – murdered people can't give hints unless they're ghosts, and John doesn't even _believe _in that sort of thing.

I could see and deduce exactly what was going through Lucy's mind as she stood and worked it through in her head. I was the nearest to the corpse, but I was a detective – I just _couldn't _be the murderer! Harry was too giggly to be the murderer. John and Sally Donovan were dead, so it couldn't be either of them. She already knew her father was not the murderer because she had asked him. Her mother and Matthew were too far away to be suspects. That left Johanna, Sarah and me. She rounded on Johanna. "Johanna, does Aunty Sarah look like the murderer to you?"

"It's not for me to say," said Johanna enigmatically.

"Yes or no! You've got to answer!" persisted Sarah.

"I can't frame a friend."

"She's your friend? Then you must know…no…"

Claire spun round and looked at me in confusion. "I…I don't know!" she finally exclaimed in exasperation, sweeping a gaze round the room for clues. Her eyes fixed on John, who once again was looking very pointedly at a spot on my coat. She followed his gaze. I looked down and saw a red wine stain. Claire still hadn't twigged and looked back at John, who then gave an infinitesimal nod at Donovan. We both noticed a similar stain on her top. Claire looked from me to her and the truth dawned.

"YOU!" she pointed a finger accusingly at me.

"Me." I replied quietly.

"I _said _so!" said Donovan, leaping up and addressing John. "Didn't I say – one day there'll be a body and he'll be the one that put it there? I was right!" She folded her arms and stared at us all smugly.

-/-/-/-/-

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Two momentous things happened yesterday. One: Sherlock socialised. Actually, properly socialised – not for a case but for its own sake. Admittedly it was still unconventional, but he managed to more or less fit in. Two: He fell asleep travelling back home. I had to wake him as we arrived at the station. He explained that being normal even for short periods of time with familiar people was tiring enough, and that a whole evening with no secondary motive in the company of ten near-strangers had left him wiped. "…But I've done it – I've proven that it's possible!" he affirmed triumphantly. "From now on John _you_ can do all that social stuff. It's not worth the energy and boredom."

I had hoped that Donovan might back down a bit after finally being proved (sort of) right about Sherlock. However, this was not to be. I think she's just got so used to calling him "Freak" that it's become subconscious. And whenever Sherlock comes back at her with a smart comment in reply to her jibes she smugly alludes to the game of Murder in the Dark. Oh well…some people never learn!


	39. Swimming by Deduction

_**Mycroft Holmes (Ghost-Written by John H. Watson)**_

Readers will be doubtless be aware that after many failed attempts I have been making a serious effort to lose weight over the past year. Keeping track of multiple government affairs simultaneously presents no difficulties for me, but it leaves little room for the efficient organisation of food and exercise. When I come home with a serious headache after several hours of reading and commenting on paperwork submitted by several departments, I am in no state to calculate, weigh out and prepare a healthy, balanced meal; let alone subject myself to vigorous exercise. It is certainly a pity that exercising the mind does not have a more useful effect on the body.

It's not unusual for myself and my assistant Anthea to chat about mundane things during breaks, especially at the end of the day when I come as close to avoiding work as a person in my position can afford to come. She asked me what I planned to do after work.

"In a nutshell: Eat and sleep," I replied, rubbing my eyes and face.

"This diet's really getting to you, isn't it?"

"You could say that. It seems that all I do now is go to work, come home, sweat and calculate meals. Damned wholemeal bread, vegetable oil spread and iceberg lettuce. I can't fry anything or buy anything ready-made, and eating out alone is both impractical and expensive." I huffed in irritation. "My doctor has informed me that I have a slow metabolism and as such will probably always struggle to keep the weight away. It's a very inconvenient prognosis." I heaved myself out of my chair, gathered up an armful of files and together we made our way to the pigeon holes.

"You know," said Anthea, as she helped me stack files into their appropriate spaces, "I was the clumsy, podgy one of the family."

"I hope that by saying so you aren't suggesting anything about me."

"Oh God no…not at all. I was just thinking that I might be able to help, having dieted to lose weight myself."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well," she said, "What really helped for me was going swimming."

"So you are saying you think I should take up swimming?"

"I'm saying that…that I go swimming now twice a week. Tuesdays and Fridays. I mean, if you think it would help…that is, to give you a bit of moral support…" she stuttered.

"So, in summary," I said, "You are inviting me to join you?"

"Yes. And then, well, if you _wanted_ to, there's a cafe above the pool that does these really good meals. Healthy ones that would fit in with your diet. It might give you ideas, you know what I mean?"

"Yes…but I am a little puzzled. This _is_ purely platonic, I take it?"

"Oh yes, Sir," Anthea said, her businesslike manner returning. "Yes, simply a friend helping a friend."

"You know how pressed I am for time, don't you?"

"Yes Sir, but equally and with respect, you'd work more efficiently if you didn't feel so resentful about your diet." She paused and then added, resolutely, "I think it would be worth the time lost."

"And you're suggesting Friday?"

"Yes…how about meeting at the pool at 5.45pm?"

"Well as long as my work is not affected I see no reason to refuse."

-/-/-/-/-

It was not long after I had returned to my flat that I was suddenly hit by an exceptionally formidable reason to refuse: Swimwear. I have never gone out of my way to exercise, with the exception of the commute across the street from my flat to work and back. Therefore apart from leggings and walking shoes which I reluctantly purchased when I began my regime in earnest, I own no sports clothing.

Ordering online was too risky: It would take too long to return trunks that did not turn out to be suitable, and the order could very well be delayed and not arrive in time. My other options included going to a shop and hiring a personal shop assistant, sending someone to select trunks from a shop for me, selecting them from a shop myself, hiring them at the pool, or abandoning the swimming plan.

Abandoning the plan would probably lead to Anthea figuring out the reason and offering to assist in some way, which I particularly didn't want. I may be objective, but there are limits even with me. Browsing for swimming trunks in a sports shop was another situation I was not particularly keen to get involved in. It also seemed pointless to me to hire trunks if there was a chance I would begin swimming regularly.

In the end I decided to buy online and collect in-store. That way I would be able to return them should they prove unsuitable, as well as ensure they got to me in time whilst spending minimal time in the shop. I ordered a pair of navy blue boxer-style swimming trunks from _Gonzalo _and then walked the half-mile to the complex two streets away which had a branch.

It is extraordinary how many different types of sports shoe there are, and the number that can be packed into one small branch of a shop. One wall was almost entirely dedicated to shelves displaying different styles of trainers. The rest of the shop was pleasantly lit by a large window at the front, and had a thin, dark blue carpet on the ground. There were four basic fitting rooms at the back of the shop, each cordoned off by three walls and a curtain, and several clothes rails and mannequins were dotted around the shop.

"Can I help you?" I turned to face the assistant at the till. I would have put him in his early twenties (general complexion and facial appearance), slightly vain (elaborate hair), a guitarist (the fingertips on the left each had a hardened indent in a stripe across them, with the exception of the thumb, from holding down the strings, whilst the fingertips on the right hand were hardened all over from strumming), and a frequent swimmer himself (faint goggle-marks around the eyes).

"Yes, I have an order to collect, if you would be so kind," I told him, handing over the printed details.

I had to sign a form for collection, which the assistant fetched for me. While I was waiting for my purchase to be put in a bag and the form to be fetched, someone came into the shop who looked familiar. I tried to place him in my mind. Hands scrubbed clean with hospital precision: A medical worker, maybe? No: He had a shaving cut under one ear that appeared to be mildly infected. A medical worker would have taken steps to prevent infection in order to avoid the possibility of contaminating patients.

Who else scrubs their hands with surgical precision? Sewer workers, chefs, scientists and those who work with children. Not a sewer worker – they are usually paler than he was. Not someone working with children, judging by his facial expression and the way he shied away when passed by a woman carrying a toddler. Finally not a chef, as those serving the public usually have to wear something over their hair and that leaves a perceptible mark on the forehead. A scientist then, which meant that I probably knew him in connection to my brother. I thought of the specialists connected with Sherlock that I had seen and those he or John had described. Only one fitted those dull, resentful eyes and that expression of bludgeoning stupidity.

I hoped Anderson would not recognise me, but he was not as stupid as I would at that moment have liked him to be. He looked at me mutely as we passed each other, and I saw a gleam of recognition come into his eye. Glancing back at him just before I exited the shop I saw that he was looking at swimwear too. If I was melodramatic I would call such an encounter foreboding. However I am not melodramatic, and so I dismissed the event entirely from my mind and returned to my flat.

-/-/-/-/-

It had been a very trying day at work. Without giving away details, sometimes coordinating different governmental departments can become like a bad game of chess, where with every move made to gain ground there is the danger or inevitability of a corresponding loss, and it becomes a question of weighing one loss against the other, rather than the gains. Finances spring to mind, as do foreign relations.

Anyway, much as I love my job, that day I was very glad when I was able to pack up and exit into the fresh air, which cleared my head. Since I did not wish for everyone in the government to know that I am taking up swimming – or at least not at that juncture in time, I returned to my flat to collect my things. Trunks, towel, comb, locker change and some kind of soap were what Anthea had instructed me to bring. I had packed these beforehand, and they sat in a plastic bag by the door.

I called a cab to take me to the pool: If I engaged in Leg-Work prematurely I would use up all the energy I intended to spend swimming. Whilst in the cab my phone beeped. It was a text from Sherlock that simply read "The pool where little Carl died." I deleted it, vowing to have all sorts of nonspecific but highly unpleasant things happen to Anderson. After all, it had to be him who had informed my brother, as I had discussed the swimming session with Anthea and nobody else. Anyway, Sherlock is very talented at ignoring the government: Even if there had been somebody eavesdropping who had tipped him off as some kind of joke, he would have deleted the text or email without reading it. And he would not consider my government duties or home life interesting enough to monitor – not when there were cases he could be pursuing instead. That only left Anthea and Anderson. Since Anderson has a spiteful personality and Anthea does not, it would make sense for him to try and start trouble and make it look like Sherlock's doing.

Anthea was not there when I arrived at the pool, but I was early, and outside of her job she can be very scatter-brained. She had probably missed the bus or got off prematurely to window shop. The pool foyer was warm, humid, echoey and smelled faintly of chlorine. However it was not too crowded. I leaned against the wall, waiting, tapping my umbrella against my leg.

"Hi Sir," said a familiar voice, and I saw that Anthea had come in. She still wore her hair and make-up as she did for work, but instead of work clothes she wore a black leather jacket and shoes, white jeans and had a large, rainbow-striped felt bag over her shoulder.

"Oh, call me Mycroft out of work," I replied, smiling in greeting.

"Ok…Mycroft."

"Shall we split the price?"

"Ok," and after exchanging coins Anthea paid at the reception.

Since the reception was fairly empty and there were not many directional signs, I started to follow Anthea. She turned to me. "That way," she said, pointing to a door on the opposite side – "This one's females." There were very few people in the changing area, and all of them had different body shapes and looked vaguely repellent in their swimming gear. As such, I did not mind feeling a little exposed and out of place. This was probably a normal part of swimming that ceased to be important once submerged up to the neck in water.

After locking away my belongings I showered and emerged onto the poolside shuddering a little. A minute later Anthea appeared from the female changing rooms, and I immediately revisited my impressions from a few minutes earlier: She wore a very becoming two-piece swimming costume. It was modest, but flattered her natural figure and was patterned with blue and green swirls, presumably an impressionistic rendering of the sea. The top half, instead of having shoulder straps, was tied around the back of her neck and the lower half was in the style of close-fitting shorts. She had removed her make-up so that it didn't run in the water. I nodded at her, feeling a little shy, and she nodded back, smiling.

We stood at the side of the pool. "If I have been swimming before I don't remember it," I admitted.

"That's no problem," she said. "It can be cold getting in at first. I prefer to get it over with quickly." With that she sat on the side of the pool, slipped in and began swimming rapidly to warm up. I decided to go down the ladder into the pool, breaking out in goose pimples as I did so. The water came up to my chest and, holding onto the side, I waded a little deeper, shivering slightly as I adjusted to the temperature of the water.

"Most people trying to get fit just do lengths," Anthea said. I wasn't entirely happy with this idea, not having swum before. Instead I turned to face the width of the pool and began walking forwards, parting the water with my hands. Newton's law of motion dictates that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Since I was pushing water back, my upper half went forwards, but because of water resistance my lower half didn't follow. This caused me to lose my balance and I pitched forward, my feet slipping on the bottom of the pool.

To my shock the water did not hold me as buoyantly as I had expected, and instinctively I started thrashing, which only made things worse. I felt someone grab my arm and set me back on my feet. "Ok?" asked Anthea, keeping the surprise and amusement out of her voice.

"I'm fine," I spluttered, "I just hadn't realised the water would be so – fluid."

"Water generally is," she informed me. "Two rules for swimming: Don't panic, and keep yourself horizontal in the water. You need to work your legs as well. Have a look at the other swimmers."

I watched as somebody passed me, doing front crawl. They were kicking their legs. That seemed as good a place to start as any. Slowly, taking care not to overbalance again, I waded back to the side of the pool. "Best swim into your depth rather than out of it," advised Anthea.

I could see her watching the other swimmers rather enviously, and given what she had told me about going swimming twice a week I suspected she rather wanted to do some lengths. "Go," I told her, "I'll be fine." She understood, smiled and swam off.

I stood facing the shallow end of the pool, the water coming up to my collar bones. I began to walk forward tentatively again, parting the water in front of me. When I felt my weight shift this time I began to kick my legs. I managed to float for about five seconds, but parting the water with one's arms whilst kicking one's legs is rather like rubbing the stomach and patting the head: I quickly lost coordination, beginning to sink once again. However, instead of reacting instinctively I held my breath, reached out to the side of the pool and righted myself.

My second attempt was slightly more successful because I parted the water faster as I kicked, thus evening out the buoyancy between the upper and lower halves of my body, and I swam for thirty seconds without having to take hold of the side.

After several more attempts I was able to stay afloat for a couple of minutes and (with effort) cross the width of the pool. By this time I was breathing hard and I could feel lactic acid burning in my muscles. I held onto the side of the pool and took a short interval, during which time I watched the swimmers who were doing lengths. It occurred to me that there must be a more efficient means of simultaneously maintaining momentum and buoyancy. As it was, my arms were creating propulsion and my legs were creating buoyancy, meaning that I was only half as efficient at both as I might be were both my arms and legs maintaining both.

Most of the faster swimmers were doing front crawl. Most of the slower ones were doing breaststroke. It seemed that breaststroke was the stroke I had been closest to performing, given the way I had been parting the water, and therefore that seemed the one that logically I should continue to aim to master. Front crawl seemed to require a person to put their face into the water, and whilst I am not theoretically adverse to that, I felt that coordinating swimming and breathing simultaneously was a little ambitious to begin with. Furthermore, it was not prowess or muscle I wished to achieve as much as a general increase in fitness, which would logically come from endurance just as much as speed.

I watched Anthea swim and noticed that she did not kick her legs, but moved them in a frog-like fashion. Such a movement would push water out behind one's self in bursts which, if coordinated correctly with the cyclical parting of water using the arms, would maintain constant overall buoyancy and propulsion that was spread evenly throughout the body.

When my muscles had recovered and I had got my breath back I decided just to go for it and try the leg motion, as I knew that if everything went wrong I could revert to kicking instead. My first attempt went relatively well: I moved my arms and legs simultaneously, but covered very little ground and in a rather jerky fashion. This showed me that what I needed to do was alternate quickly between arm and leg propulsion, rather like pistons in a car. I attempted this and it worked for a few seconds, but because I was keeping my head above the water, coupled with the fact that I was leaving too much of a gap between finishing with my arms and beginning with my legs, I experienced an overall net loss of buoyancy, which meant I had to take hold of the side again. Nevertheless I felt that I was slowly mastering the essentials.

After several more attempts I got it. If a person is determined to keep their head above the water _and _move smoothly, they have to be preparing the next movement as the first is being executed. Now that I had worked out these practicalities it did not take long for my procedural memory to develop a reflexical loop and for the motion to become easy to control. Sometime later I was able to cross the pool relatively effortlessly. In my unfit state I began to tire, and with the fatigue came the cold. I motioned to Anthea to come over and informed her that I was getting out and that I would meet her in the foyer in order for us to go up to the cafe. Having established this arrangement I climbed out the pool.

One's brain can get used to something remarkably quickly. In this instance it had come to take the weight-bearing effect of the water for granted, so that when I stood at the poolside my body felt strangely cumbersome and my balance was somewhat precarious. Carefully I made my way to the lockers and found my towel and conditioner. The chlorine was creating a sticky sensation, possibly because some of it was ionising in the water. It was a relief to shower.

I didn't have to wait very long in the foyer, as I had myself spent just over an hour in the pool. This was just as well, as I realised I was ravenous. When Anthea appeared she had re-done her hair and make-up, and apart from her clothes she looked as professional as ever. "I'm starving," she declared.

"Me too," I agreed.

We made our way up to the cafe, which was a self-service one looking down upon the pool. "What are you having?" I enquired.

"I always have the baked potato and salad. You should give it a go." I watched enviously as Anthea took plenty of butter, a pinch of salt and pepper, tuna, mayonnaise and sweetcorn. When my turn came I stuck loyally to my regime and just took the plain potato and salad. Anthea wrinkled her nose. "Are you really not having anything on yours?"

"Isn't that better?"

"Why would it be better?" Then she realised what was holding me back. "Mycroft, you're allowed to eat more when you've been exercising – especially swimming." I hadn't thought of this, but upon considering it I could see that she was right. Accordingly I copied her example.

We didn't speak much as we were too busy devouring our meals, but afterwards Anthea recommended the café's chocolate cheesecake for dessert. I expressed doubt once more and was reassured again. Nevertheless I took only a small slice, as cheese and chocolate are both foods which should be approached with caution following abstinence. Suffice it to say that eating that cheesecake felt like being reborn.

-/-/-/-/-

That, in a nutshell, was my first experience of swimming. I have no idea why anybody would wish to read about it (it was John who requested that I furnish him with the details in order to ghost-write it for me). Nevertheless, there it is. The paradox: I am eating _more _than I did before, and yet I still appear to be losing weight. But the _real _difference is that I rarely think of the diet anymore, and I have gained a staunch friend. One more thing: I discovered three days after the swim that Anderson had been in the café the whole time watching me, and that he had taken an extremely poor quality phone video and circulated it throughout Scotland Yard. And Sherlock, bless him, responded by quietly threatening to tell Anderson's wife about his and Donovan's exploits if he ever tried to make a fool of me again.


	40. John on Religion

_**Posted by John H. Watson **_

**THOUGHTS ON RELIGION AND BELIEF (WARNING: CONFRONTATIONAL AND CONTROVERSIAL)**

I used to believe in God. Didn't go to church, but every year at school we had a nativity play, and were told the story of Easter. I _like _the idea of there being something loving and good and all-powerful in control of the universe and fate. Don't get me wrong, much as religion has been the cause of so much bloodshed, it's also probably been the inspiration for more good than all other influencing factors put together.

I'm also not out to change anybody else's beliefs, or to tell anybody that my beliefs are more valid than theirs (even if I may think so myself). However, I find it quite insulting when I explain, or offer to explain, very carefully and reasonably why I believe what I believe, and am simply told that I will be prayed for, or that God hasn't turned his back on me even if I have turned my back on him, or that I need to accept Jesus before my soul can be saved. I think it shows good intentions, but also a lack of respect on the part of the person saying such things – a certain disregard for what I think and my right to believe what I want without being judged.

Now, I know I'm not the best at observation and deduction – as a certain consulting detective will doubtless agree – but I have been put through the mill and have spent years examining my beliefs and the concept of religion in general, and I didn't reach my conclusions lightly. I wish to outline ten things which led me to come to the views I now hold.

**#1** I've been on the brink of death on several occasions. I prayed "Please God let me live," on each occasion. And I lived. But here's the catch: I also prayed "Please God, let _Judson_ live," and "Please God, save Louise's leg," and "Please God, stop this bloody war," and none of those were answered, and none of them _will_ be answered.

It's not the suffering itself that gets me – not in the sense that it jades my beliefs anyway. No – it's this: I've searched for a connection between the prayers that are answered and those that are not, and by all the standards I can think of, that suffering is completely random, or to use one of Sherlock's favourite words, 'arbitrary'. What kind of conscious, omniscient, omnipotent and above all _loving _being would create a plan for the universe, or at least for the world, which involves arbitrarily killing random people and saving others; letting some people get brain damaged and lose legs and burn, whilst others get stupid amounts of money and large houses and cars? It's not as if the ones that get it good are better people either, or it wouldn't be random. Good people die and bad people die. Good and bad people get rich.

Free will doesn't come into it either – nobody wants to get horribly killed, after all, and though many people would choose to get rich, that's mostly beyond the control of the individual. So I see no plan.

**#2** As a doctor I've seen people lose their minds and identities, and eventually everything that makes them human, to dementia. If the mind can cease to exist even within the brain, what chance does it stand outside it?

**#3** People have enough trouble trusting each other as it is. Even when we do put their trust in someone or something with apparently good reason to do so, that trust often turns out to be misplaced or else is later betrayed. Religion contradicts what is scientifically established in so many ways. Science is the most reliable indicator of the truth there is, and even that's far from perfect. Heck, scientists can't even agree on a good deal of the science they themselves preach! If science is the most trustworthy source of true facts and we can't even agree on that, how can anyone state that a book from thousands of years ago, or an intuition or a vision or whatever, is a sure guide to absolute and infallible truth?

**#4** Life is not black and white. Most religions and their teachings do seem to be very black and white. Therefore such teachings do not, in my opinion, reflect real life.

**#5** Regardless of what Sherlock may (or may not) believe, I certainly think that every spiritual experience, from faith to visions, 'supernatural' knowledge and intuitions can all be narrowed down to material phenomena. Cryptamnesia – remembering information but not the source. Schizophrenia, seizures, drugs, the power of suggestion. The physiological processes underpinning the experiences you get from these are often not even that complicated, from a neurological point of view. Yet they give rise to this incredible array of vastly different and profoundly life-changing alterations of perception. Which leads me onto point number 6.

**#6** Life builds from the base-up, as Darwin has shown, but religion works from the top-down – with God being top, then heavenly beings, then humans and lastly animals. Therefore I can't reconcile the world picture painted by religion with real life in my mind, and as a scientist myself I am drawn to the scientific viewpoint.

**#7** People are naturally optimists. That's good for the most part, but it goes against being objective. Life is beautiful and vibrant and wonderful, but it's also heart-wrenchingly hard. When you look at the news and see reports of tsunamis and earthquakes…Or when you walk through rubble and empty timber and screaming people who you are supposed to be there to _help, _not cause _this, _and it's too much bigger than you which leaves you feeling utterly powerless, and you think that there is no possible justifiable reason for such utter desolation and destruction... And you look at their faces and in them you see yourself and those you love and those who love you back. And then you have to go away. And you just leave them there. You leave them howling in misery and pain and fear, and you go back to your warm, comfortable, safe, mundane life and your petty little problems and when you try and tell anyone about it they don't want to know and they don't understand because how could they, after all they haven't been there, so they try and take your mind off it and you give them what they want and talk about 'happier' things and smile and laugh, because if you don't people will stop wanting to talk to you and reach out to you, because it makes them miserable and they quite understandably don't like feeling miserable when there's nothing they can do about it anyway…

Religion in that scenario becomes a form of self-preservation. It's how you live with yourself for leaving. How you stay sane. You pretend to yourself each day that it will be alright because it all tends towards some greater good, and those people will be rewarded in the next life, or some power will help them in _this _life because you're not there to do it any more. And you pray for them because it eases your own conscience and makes you feel that you're doing something good for them.

Or you find something just as disturbing and just as dark to bury yourself in. Such as solving crimes.

**#8** Almost all tribes and countries in the world have some kind of religion, with stories and legends that are passed down through the ages, and as such when we create fantasy worlds we often create religions and legends to go with them.

Take Richard Adams's 'Watership Down' for example. It was my favourite book from when I was nine years old until I started secondary school. In this book the rabbits, who are the protagonists, believe in Lord Frith - their deity, and El-ahrairah – the founder of rabbit-kind. The rabbits have lots of stories about El-ahrairah, and how through the cunning of him and his people, and the grace of Frith, they survive and proliferate in spite of all their enemies and predators. These stories are passed down from generation to generation of rabbits.

And then there is another book I read as a teenager, called "Skallagrigg," which is primarily about two people with cerebral palsy – a girl in the seventies and a boy in the twenties abandoned in an abusive and squalid hospital. In this story there is a mythical character that has been built up called the Skallagrigg, who helps disabled people to escape (and sometimes endure) their trappings and influence the world against the odds. Again there is a large collection of Skallagrigg stories that are circulated throughout the disabled community, unbeknownst to the able bodied community, at least at first.

These examples all illustrate my point about world religions. My hypothesis is that because humans have big brains which give them both hindsight and foresight, and allow them to feel fear and despair and desire and hope and love and grief in the way that no other species on Earth can, they have developed a behaviour pattern that no other species on Earth actually needs: The art of creating myths as a means of turning chaos (which is unworkable) into order (which can be shaped). Almost as though they are using their experiences and collective philosophies as a tool in itself. I think that the behaviour of creating Gods and building up myths and weaving aspects of real life into these myths is our equivalent of an instinctive behavioural pattern. Furthermore, it would have aided our survival in the past by binding tribes together more closely, and as the two sayings go: 'Strength in numbers,' and 'United we stand, divided we fall'.

**#9** To expand on the idea of chaos and order: Entropy is a basic physical phenomenon that appears to be universal. Drop a drinking glass and it will probably smash into fragments. But drop fragments and it's unlikely that they'll form into a drinking glass. Entropy simply means 'Order into chaos', and is also a function of time, since we are aware of time passing largely due to the effects of entropy. For instance, if we saw a bedroom spontaneously begin to tidy itself we would probably assume that time was going backwards. Therefore in entropy we have another example of religion not mirroring real life. Anything stating that God created everything in a specific image and with a specific purpose is not reflective of real life, since all things are constantly changing their image and their 'purpose'. The dolphin used to be a meat-eating land-mammal which took to the sea. Legs and feet became fins, and hind legs disappeared. This shows what I mean.

Some things appear to override entropy. Like stars forming, for example, or the formation of life. Chemicals are built and metabolised in an attempt to maintain homeostasis, bones repair after being broken, the immune system chases out invading pathogens and gases are exchanged in the lungs to provide material for cellular respiration and balance the blood's pH. When we observe the universe over a very short stretch of time – say, a human lifespan, with no prior knowledge of science, it's easy to think that the precision and interconnectedness of all systems is due to some grand design, tending towards some great end.

But this apparent reversal of entropy is an illusion. Ultimately stars and life are no more immune to the effects of entropy than anything else. DNA mutates, arteries become clogged and joints become stiff over time. Eventually entropy gets the better of us all and we die. Drop a human and they break, just like everything else.

And stars explode or collapse after a few billion years.

When you see a river flowing over rocks in a haphazard way, occasionally you see a little whirlpool that forms and then is gone. In the same way, it seems to me that these little random whirlpools of reversed entropy occur for a fleeting second regularly throughout space and time, and then are gone as well.

**#10** Sherlock has told me that he doesn't want romance muddying his perception. Feelings like that don't fit in with his cold, precise worldview. But paradoxically, if they did, his worldview wouldn't be cold and precise. In other words, he just wouldn't be Sherlock. What I am trying rather clumsily to say, which is in a sense a summary of all that has gone before in this post, is that in the same way that romance is fundamentally at odds with Sherlock's personality, so are all things religious at odds with mine.


	41. Dear Jennifer Wilson

Dear Jennifer Wilson,

I swore I wouldn't end up doing this. Writing to you, I mean. After all, it's been over a year now since your case closed for the last time. Your body lies in a cemetery and your mind, if it is somewhere else…is somewhere else. What possible good can come from writing to you?

But it's been a long, barren run for me and it's not the first time I've thought of you during such periods. Not that I'd tell anyone that though, even John. In fact _especially _not John: He'd be bound to get the wrong idea – he does insist on projecting his own hopes for my personality into his impressions of me.

The strange thing is I knew you better in your death than most people probably did when you were alive. For instance, you were careful to conceal your lovers and you remained married. Very few self-respecting men who knew their wives were serial adulterers would have continued the marriage, and your reputation in the media would have been damaged had it become apparent that you had a string of extra-marital lovers. So given that, and the fact that obituaries always make people into heroes, as well as the fact that it didn't have a direct bearing on the outcome of the investigation (or at least not in the police's eyes), that aspect of your life may well become a secret that only I continue to remember.

_Why_ did you have so many lovers? You weren't a shallow person – not when it came to feelings. You lost your baby daughter fourteen years ago, but your love for her still burned so rawly and brightly even as your own light faded, that it guided me to the truth about your death. And against all odds and after all that time you didn't divorce your husband. You could have easily divorced him, even if he was abusing you. Since you worked in the media all you'd have needed to do would be to sell your story, or threaten to do so. You were cunning so you would have realised that. So maybe, just maybe, the fact that ring stayed on your finger all those years showed that you did feel something real for him at the end of the day.

Or maybe you were just bored. You were, after all, an extremely clever woman, and we both know that bored geniuses are liable to develop hobbies that are morally questionable in the eyes of normal people. Did anyone apart from me know just what an exceptional person you really were? Did you ever have a chance to show it, except for that last beautiful check-mate you executed?

Maybe if I'd paid more attention to the suicides earlier I might have been able to save you. I'd like to apologise for that. It's easy to say it now that you're dead and I know what I know…but I would have liked to meet you.

Sherlock Holmes.


	42. 102 Minutes

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

**T = 0 min, at Bart's Hospital to retrieve postmortem documents  
**

"…Look, how can you call the murder of six family members dull and predictable?"

"John for the last time, there was nothing new about the case. Nothing the police couldn't have figured out if they'd just had the brains to look up some old cases."

"Oh yes, how old?"

"Birnam Massacre, 1870, or Henderson vs. Donald 1986…"

"That was a _car theft, _Sherlock, not a sextupal murder, or whatever the proper term for sextupal is."

"There are still parallels…"

"GOING UP. STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS."

"Yes alright, we're not blind!"

"John, you're doing it again."

"What?"

"Talking to a machine."

"Oh. Right. But – "

"And keep your voice down. It's a hospital. Some people _are_ blind."

"When have you ever cared about tact?"

"FIRST FLOOR."

"Hi."

"Hi."

**T = 0.5 min**

"SECOND FLOOR."

"Bye."

"Bye."

"GOING UP. STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS."

"It's different. I'm not on a case anymore."

"Rubbish. You just said it because it was a good comeback."

" – "

**T = 0.75 min**

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Clanging."

"You'd better not be having a joke like that other time…"

"That was funny – "

" – No it wasn't!"

"Well it was actually, but no. There was definitely a clang. And a jolt. And we seem to be slowing down."

"I think it's stopped."

"FOURTH FLOOR."

"I think you're right. Still, we're on the right floor at least."

"DOORS OPENING."

"No they're not!"

"No, they're not. They're still not. Oh, bloody hell."

**T = 10 min**

"John, if anything happens – "

"Are you going to tell me you love me?"

"Actually I was going to say, if you ever get trapped in a falling lift…"

"Sherlock, I don't want to think – "

"But it's important! It's a myth that jumping would save you. For one thing you've already built up too much momentum – "

"Stop it – "

" – and for another the chances of you timing it absolutely correctly are next to nothing."

"Yes, alright, point taken – "

" – You're much better off if you spread yourself flat on the floor, so that the massive impact is distributed evenly all through your body – "

"SHERLOCK!"

"I love you."

" – "

**T = 23 min**

"I'm hungry."

"I'm sorry, what? I beg your parden?"

"Yes, you heard correctly. I do get hungry sometimes."

"I'm hungry too."

"Not as hungry as I am."

"How hungry are you?"

"I'm so hungry I could eat everything in this lift."

"There's just you and me in this lift."

"Well then, I'm so hungry I could eat _you_."

"Pfft. That's nothing. I'm so hungry _I_ could eat me."

"Hmm…that _is _pretty hungry. But at least we can agree on one thing."

"What?"

"That should it actually come to cannibalism, you'll be the first to be eaten."

"Charming."

"Although, since dehydration occurs before starvation I'd probably drink your blood first."

"Fair enough."

**T = 30 min**

"John you're going to break the button."

"Bloody button. Why do they have a help button if they never have anyone at the other end?"

"It's lunchtime. Maybe they're having lunch. I want lunch."

"I know. You keep saying that."

"Well I'm _hungry._"

"That's generally what happens when you don't eat for several days straight."

"Have you got any food on you?"

"Er…no. Don't think so."

"Stupid, _stupid_!"

"Well _sorry_."

"Not you, me. Should _always _have emergency food somewhere…"

"But you don't eat during cases."

"So I don't."

**T = 56 mins**

"Oh!"

"What?"

"Penguin bar."

"Can I have it?"

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"We're going to ration it. Half each. One small bit every ten minutes."

"What's the point of that?"

"We don't know how long we'll be stuck here. It could be a whole day or more – we need to pace ourselves. Keep our strength up."

"With one penguin bar?"

"It's the best we've got."

"That's ridiculous, John. I want my half now."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Right, that's it. Give me that!"

"Stop wrenching it…Sherlock! Ow. That's not half, that's most of it!"

"Well you can have the rest of your half in little bits every ten minutes and see how you like it."

" – "

**T = 65 minutes**

"John? John talk to me. I'm bored. Oh, come on. Look…alright. I'm sorry I basically ate your penguin bar. How's that?"

"Hmm."

"Well I suppose that' a start."

**T = 74 minutes**

"Animal?"

"Nope."

"Vegetable."

"Nope."

"Mineral."

"Yes."

"Outdoor or indoor?"

"I can only answer yes and no."

"Oh. Ok. Outdoor?"

"No."

"Indoor."

"Yes."

"Household?"

"No."

"Involved in detection?"

"Yes."

"So laboratory?"

"Obviously."

"Hey! You can only answer yes and no."

"Hmmm. Poisonous?"

"No."

"Edible?"

"No. Yes. Maybe. Yes, on the whole."

"On the whole?"

"Yes."

"Well that narrows it down. Sugar?"

"No."

"Agar?"

"No."

"Some kind of growth medium?"

"No."

"I don't know. I give up."

"You can't give up. I'll give you a clue – you eat a derivative of it almost every day."

"But you said it wasn't household!"

"It isn't. You eat a _derivative _of it every day."

"Look, I don't know."

"Glycerol of course. All fats are made of a glycerol backbone with three fatty acids attached."

"Of course. How silly of me. How does that relate to detection though?"

"Glycerol prevents blood and other samples from freezing, thus preserving the cellular structure. Anyway, your turn…"

**T = 91 minutes**

"Wish I had my violin."

"Yes, we could have had a merry little sing-along, couldn't we?"

"Play-along at any rate. You could have brought your clarinet."

"I'll take care to do so next time. Are you alright?"

"Yes, why?"

"You're bobbing from side to side."

"Well at some point we'll both need a bathroom."

"Oh God…"

"But it's true."

"I know it's true. Is this the eight minute warning or the initial one?"

"Initial."

"Well that's lucky at least."

"Very. And I'm_ still_ hungry."

"Me too."

"_Hello?_"

"At last – hello – !"

"_Can I help you?_"

" – Yes, please do…we're stuck! The doors won't open."

"_Are you between floors?_"

"Er…no. We're on the fourth floor."

"_Stay there and someone will be with you in a minute._"

"Yes!"

"At last! Come here, you!"

"Aha!"

"Ahem…"

"Quite. So."

"_Hello?_"

"Hello!"

"_I've tried pressing the button to open the lift and nothing's happening. I'll have to get something to prise the door open. Sit tight_."

"Right-ho."

"I wish he'd stop telling us in various ways to stay put."

"So do I."

**T = 100 minutes**

"_Hello?_"

"Hello."

"_I've got a wrench._"

"Good for you."

"_Just wait there and I'll see if I can force the doors open._"

"We'll try not to run away."

"_Sorry._ _You'd probably love to run away._"

"Oh don't worry. We're fine here for a bit."

"_Right…I'm going to give it a go now_."

"Go right ahead."

**T = 102 minutes**

"_It's beginning to give!_"

"Just a bit more…"

"You can do it!"

"_Nrrrgh…aha_!"

"Hooray! Hello!"

"Hello!"

"Hello!"

"I am _so_ sorry about that…I'll have someone over to fix that tomorrow. I'll put up an out of order sign but meanwhile don't use that lift again…"

"We won't. C'mon John, time to get well fed up and agreeably drunk."

"Bye then!"

"Bye."

**T = 112 minutes – Having retrieved the necessary documents and refreshed ourselves**

" 'Don't use that lift again'. Please, I'm Sherlock Holmes! As if I'd spend one hundred and two minutes in an out-of-order lift, only to get back into exactly the same one again…"


	43. Sherlock's Valentine's Message

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

Two caselets in one day. Then violin. Then casserole and Due South. And I still have some Valentine's day to get through. It's all very well for normal people who revel in such feelings to the exclusion of anything really useful, but for me and my kind, it's an exclusion. The shops become full of roses and stuffed toys, and poor high brow geniuses like myself have no recourse but to hunker down in their rooms and wait for the madness to pass. I haven't seen John all day. He's probably staying over at Sarah's. I hate to imagine what they're getting up to – probably some shenanigans involving roses and chocolate.

Not that I ever wanted to depend on another person. To feel such things would only distract me from my work. Except…I do depend on somebody. In a work-way, not a valentine's-way. As all readers of my blog should be aware, I delete any information that does not pertain to work, which, although it frees up a lot of disk space, poses its own unique problems. Long term memories are not stored in particular brain structures. They are stored throughout the brain, and are accessible only by their connections to other memories. So every time I delete a piece of knowledge – and I only found this out recently – I free up space for knowledge that matters, but I also make it harder to get at that stuff because I also delete the connections leading to that stored knowledge.

I first realised this after the Study in Pink. I _should _have realised far sooner that the person who hunts in the crowd, the person we trust even though we don't know them, was the cab driver. And then in Blind Banker I should have realised straight away that an open window meant the killer was still there. I almost got killed because of that. And I got it all wrong with the Bruce Partington plans – well, in terms of Moriarty's intentions. And I almost got John killed. That's a terrible thing to live with, actually.

Which brings me on to John. I still remember that time I managed to solve the case he was dreaming – the one with the American woman who's first husband turned up at her wedding in England. I slightly overreacted to his indignation at my ability to deduce and solve the case from his sleep-talking, but it really did unsettle me that he had such a low opinion of himself. Also that he honestly believed it made no difference to me having him there.

So John, for the record: Congratulations – you've permanently altered my brain structure. You are the one fixed point in a changing world. You are the thread that runs through all my knowledge and all my memories, and without you I'm slightly afraid that I'll be like knitting unravelling. And that's frightening – that I have to put so much faith in another human being that I know I have no control over. But at the same time, it's a lot less lonely. I may be a high functioning sociopath, and normal people irritate the heck out of me, but neither of those things can stop loneliness. I do need someone to bounce off. And if that is the way it must be, then I'm glad it's you.

Such admissions are never easy, but perhaps…perhaps that is the function of Valentine's day: To make the process easier, and to provide a concrete time to do it. I never thought I'd say this…but people, this is my Valentine's message:

Thank you, John.

_[SH: Before you ask, Mrs Hudson – I HAVE posted it now.]_


	44. The One that Got Away

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Sherlock's apparent callousness in certain situations still astounds me from time to time. More than once he has walked into a room, glanced at a mutilated body and made a word-play joke. Such behaviour is certainly inappropriate and arguably unethical too. Personally his attitude doesn't make me as uncomfortable or frustrated as it used to, because I understand now that it is not borne of innate cruelty or enjoyment of the morbid. And even for Sherlock some deaths hit home harder than others. But in a job like his it would cause mental illness if you responded with full-blown grief to every death you came into contact with. Even knowing that though, I still struggle to get my head around the fact that it doesn't for one minute occur to him to alter his behaviour. Luckily, the ethical issues of Sherlock's job have only been a side dish. That is to say, they've never got in the way of the practicalities. Until a week or so ago, that is.

It was a very time-sensitive case. Unusually, it was not Lestrade but inspector Dim – as he has come to be known – who called upon Sherlock for help. That inspector may be bolshie and presumptuous, but he does know (now0 when to ask for assistance. The Blind Banker and the Case of the Condensation Code must have put him in his place.

The victim this time was Ben Tyler – a quiet young teen who lived only a few blocks away from Baker Street. Inspector Dim had already questioned his mother, who swore that he had never been in any trouble and spent most of his free time in his room studying. In fact he had been on study leave when the tragedy occurred. She had looked into his room on his last night and found it dark. He had been sitting at his laptop and closed it as she came in. She had asked him why he was working in the dark. Ben had told her that the light bulb had blown, but he would change it in the morning and meanwhile there was enough light from the computer screen to work by. She had left him, hoping the dark would send him to bed at a reasonable time.

Sherlock glided along, fast-walking, occasionally jogging. His eyebrows were pulled down in introspection, his lips were pursed, his head was bent and his coat swished around his legs. He was completely transformed from the apathetic, drained being that prowls the flat in between cases. I jogged beside him, trying to keep up. We turned down two streets before I broke the silence. "Why not a cab?"

"Not many cabs around at this time in the morning, and I want to keep track of the sun."

"The _sun_?"

"Yes – Inspector Dim said that the _mother _said she found him dead at his computer early this morning with a dart in his neck, a packed night bag, the bedroom window open and the blind up. The forensics team examined the body – it's very, _very _fresh. Freshest they'd ever seen." We turned down a narrower street, and Sherlock craned his neck and squinted up at the sun. "If only he'd called me straight away. He emailed me pictures of the crime scene but I need to see the light through his window."

"Why?"

"Because if it's East-facing it won't get much sun at that time in the day, but it will get a bit. And for about half an hour or so in the morning it should come streaming in, if the window's a good height, that is. You'd need that to aim a dart from a distance, so if I'm right…" He glanced at the sun again. "Two more streets and about twelve minutes, if my calculations are right – come on come on come on. We can still make it in time. But that's not all."

"What then?"

"His phone. One of the old models – he was never fussed about being technologically up to date as long as he could call and text. The charger was gone and they don't make chargers like that now. He hadn't put it on to charge last night, so the battery's really low. Inspector Dim's already looked at a couple of texts but he couldn't make head or tail of them. Once the battery dies it could be weeks before we can get a replacement charger that fits it, if ever. Those texts could be vit…"

But he was cut off mid-sentence by a squealing of brakes, a scream, and a heart-stopping _crack_. We both spun round as an engine roared and a car sped off round the corner. We looked at each other, and then at the bike that was lying broken and bent on the pavement, and the child, sprawled and motionless with a trickle of blood running down the pavement. My medical instincts kicked in, and I grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and dragged him over.

The child was a little boy of about five. School uniform, with rucksack and lunch box. How any sane parent could think a child of five was ready to navigate the London roads alone with a bicycle during the rush-hour in order to get to school…it amounted to neglect. But these thoughts took only a second in my mind as I crouched down and loosened off his collar – marked "Peter Anderson".

"Peter?" I called, "Peter can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me." There was no response. I put a finger against his throat and a hand in front of his mouth, whilst at the same time watching for the reassuring rise-and-fall motion of the chest. It came, shallowly and very irregularly. The pulse too was irregular. I prised one eye open and the pupils were large. I was starting to realise this was serious.

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

Today I had a clash of work and conscience. We were going to investigate the case of Ben Tyler, aged sixteen, murdered by poisoned dart in his bedroom, probably through the window as he tried to run away. On the way there a child was critically injured by a speeding hit-and-run driver.

Once we'd got our wits together (which, as a detective and an ex-soldier, didn't take very long), John spoke. "Sherlock, you've got to help," said John. "Call an ambulance. Then find something to keep him warm."

I dithered. If I did what John asked then the very time-sensitive Ben Tyler evidence would probably be lost. If I didn't do what he asked then the child would probably die. And he might die anyway. There was no chance of tracing the hit-and-run driver because neither of us had got the registration number of the car. So if I did what John asked we might lose not only a child and a hit-and-run driver, but also fail to avenge the murder of Ben Tyler. But if I didn't do what he asked I would be guilty of letting a child slip away when we might have been able to save him (however slim the chances). Besides, an alive person should take precedence over a dead one. But to aim a dart through a window in dim light and hit your target perfectly – that speaks of experience, which in turn raises the possibility of further killings. And then what? One life saved at the expense of more? My mind was in a whirl.

"NOW, Sherlock," John urged, and that jogged me into instinctive action which surprised even me. I whipped out my phone and dialled 999, at the same time trying to shrug off my coat. It struck me then that in all my time as a detective I had never dialled 999 – it had always been someone else who had done it.

"Hello?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes…hello."

"Which service do you require?"

"Ambulance."

"What exactly has happened?"

"Um, a child has been…someone has…a car has hit a child and they're injured. Critically, I think. My – my friend's a doctor, he's with the child, but he doesn't have any equipment."

"And where are you?"

"Taunton Mews."

"What's the postcode?"

"Um…I couldn't tell you without checking – " (normally I would be able to but what with struggling with my coat and trying to keep the phone to my ear and the talking and the novelty of the situation I had forgotten). " – But it was near the Hobgoblin bar. Or what used to be the Hobgoblin bar anyway."

"Yes, we've got you. We're sending an ambulance. Now, is the child breathing?"

The coat fell to the ground and John swiped it up, laying it over Peter. "John, is he breathing?" I asked. John mouthed _barely_ back. "Barely," I said into the phone.

"Do you know anything about the child?"

I swept a glance over him. "Not much. His name is Peter Anderson. He attends Frances Holland School, he doesn't hold his pen correctly, he likes Spiderman a lot, he's regularly bullied but doesn't fight back, he's been to the dentist in the last month, he had baked beans for breakfast…" I looked at the paint on the bike, opened his packed lunch box and noted the contents, "His parents are poor – "

" – And what are his parents' names?"

"Haven't the faintest."

There was a confused pause. "Do you know anything about his medical history?"

"No, nothing."

"Er, I see…" said the voice at the end of the phone, slowly.

"He's not breathing," muttered John, and promptly began mouth to mouth resuscitation. I relayed this to the ambulance crew.

"Someone's on their way. Call us back if the condition of the patient changes."

I put the phone down. "Now what?" I asked John.

"Now you stand in the street and stop traffic – " He paused and blew a big breath into Peter's nose and mouth, " – And I'll keep working on him."

By now the traffic was becoming thicker, and one man honked at me to move out the way. I stood my ground and stared him down, and then gestured to John and the child. To his credit the man made to stop, but I shook my head and waved him on determinedly. A few people wound down their windows asked if they could help but I said help was on the way. Some pedestrians gathered around John. I managed to keep them back enough until the ambulance came.

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Some people think that when you're in an emergency your memory goes fuzzy. Well, if you're panicking that's true, but as I was a doctor I didn't panic. Everything I did was very, very clear, although it all seemed to take forever. People milled around, but I was concentrating on only one thing…._Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. _ It was a job that, although simple, required absolute concentration. If Sherlock hadn't called the ambulance and policed the area I'm not sure what would have happened.

It took exactly thirty two breaths for the ambulance to arrive, and the pulse, although faint and irregular, was persistent; there was hope yet. When I heard the sirens and saw the lights I almost stopped automatically, but caught myself in time. Sherlock led them over to where I was working on Peter. They intubated him, hooked him up to a drip, and wrapped him up in a proper blanket and got him onto the stretcher.

"We've managed to stabilise him for now. We also called the school and they've contacted his parents," one of the paramedics told me. "You'd better come with us."

"No, we're fine," insisted Sherlock, looking a little tense and anxious. For someone so adverse to boredom he is still very bound by habit, and when things happen that he's not in control of or that are not in his area of skill it can sometimes really throw him.

"Well your friend needs to be treated for shock." I realised I was cold and had broken out in a sweat, and wrapped Sherlock's coat around myself.

"I'll sort him out," Sherlock said. The paramedics discussed this, and agreed that I would be fine once I got inside and had something.

We went to the bar and, with a great deal of difficulty, managed to get hold of two cups of tea. As often happens, I tried to order and got ignored, and then my request was refused rudely and repeatedly. Sherlock attempted to order for me and it was instantly brought over. I bit my lip and refrained from saying anything, but in a strange way I didn't mind. This was normal life again, and I needed normal life after the activities of the morning so far. Sherlock sent a few texts and his phone beeped in reply. Finally he broke the silence. "We'll go to the Tyler household once you've drunk that tea," he told me. "We'll be too late to see if the sun comes in the window the way I think it would've done, but there'll still be useful material."

"And the phone?" He shook his head. "Conked out. Maybe we'll know in a week but that's too long. We'll just have to reconstruct the scenario tomorrow morning with what we know, and solve the case as best we can."

Sherlock gazed out the window and bit his nails as I sipped on the tea.

"Thanks for your help," I told him.

He looked round at me. "Hmm?"

"It wasn't easy for you abandoning that evidence. I bet all your instincts went against it."

"That's true," he said thoughtfully, dropping his gaze. "Mind you once I'd made that decision I acted on instinct too, so…" he shrugged. "Anyway," he added, perking up, "We should come back here once we've finished the case. They do fantastic Thai noodles." And with the tea finished we were on our way.

_[JW: I am not going to elaborate any more on this case, as it wasn't unique and there are better, more elegant ones that are similar, but demonstrate Sherlock's skills to a greater extent. However I will say that that Sherlock's supposition – that the dart was aimed through the window – proved to be correct. And the motive? Drugs. Petty, material drugs. And though we traced the killer he shot himself before he could be arrested. So all in all the case looked promising, and I suppose there was the interesting aspect of timing the dart correctly to get the sunlight. But it was still rather anti-climactic in the end._

_And as for Peter Anderson – he survived and came round, and though he is fully cognisant his vision seems to be impaired. But I think he'll do alright. ]_


	45. Sherlock on Religion

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

When you don't understand something there are generally two things you can do. You can ignore it, or you can strive to get your head around it. The rule I tend to follow is that if I don't understand something and it doesn't bear any relevance to my work I ignore it; and if it does then I_ make _myself understand it by hook or by crook.

But there are some things that, whilst not being exactly relevant to my work, are so widely debated and discussed, and form such a fundamental part of being a human being, that it would be idiotic and an act of denial to simply blank them out. And there are others that, try as I might I just can't fully fathom. There are a multitude of intriguing, heroic and disturbing things that are done in the name of love and religion, so as a detective it is useful to know a little bit about both these things.

A religious motive has one very unusual thing about it: Knowledge of it often doesn't advance a case, because faith comes in so many different guises and is so widespread in one form or another across different cultures and races. What do you gain from knowing that someone is religious? Does that automatically make them a crime suspect? No, of course not – so it doesn't really help me, except maybe in conjunction with another clue. And likewise the other way round: Once you have established that a crime was motivated by religion, what does that tell you? That the killer was either religious or was part of some kind of religious organisation – or at least was pretending to be. But lots of gangs are like that, and lots of people are religious. On its own it's not enough.

I have to admit that I am rather distrustful of organised religion in general. Not so much the fact that it's organised, but that the organisation and ritualism of it is so worldwide, so universally understood and so efficient. If the church, for example, becomes an outlet for corruption, that corruption has the potential to grow out of control and spread all over the world with breathtaking rapidity. The thought is mind-blowing, and it would be extremely difficult to tackle evil on such a vast scale.

But does any of that jade my perception of God? No, not really. Religion is man-made. God, on the other hand…Well, let's imagine for a minute that we have undeniable proof thatGod is real and perfectly good, loving, omniscient and omnipotent; and also that the Bible is real (simply because that is the religious book I know best, although my knowledge is a little rusty). There are so, so many instances in the Bible where people are told to do things, and things happen to people that seem utterly unjustifiable and inexplicable. For example, Job losing his entire family, his riches, his home and eventually his health, despite being a good man who loves and serves God. Or Jesus being imprisoned, flogged, charged and eventually crucified (even though his trial was rigged and illegally performed), despite healing, teaching and feeding so many thousands of people. Or Noah, being told to build a gigantic ark and collect animals in twos (a story that can still occasionally raise a chuckle from me). The scribes would have already known the outcome of these events before beginning to document them, so we as readers are left in no doubt as to the logical progression of events, and the end to which they tend. However at the time everything would have seemed really chaotic, not to mention unfair.

The people in each instance might well have questioned the existence of God, and certainly God's beneficence. Yet in each instance a greater good is seen to come out of the chaos. In the case of Job, he learned that love and grace didn't work on a system of reward and punishment: If bad (or good) things happened it was not because he 'caused' them by his actions. And the people around Job would have learned about the depth of God's unconditional love, since Job's refusal to stop loving God even when all seemed lost would to some degree have mirrored this. In the case of Noah, the sullied slate of humanity was wiped clean for a fresh start. And in the case of Jesus, the suffering and evil that led to his execution enabled ever-lasting redemption.

I am not necessarily saying that I believe or even agree with any of this, because to agree outright seems to imply on some level that the death of good people today is always fair and right. But what I _can _relate to is the chaotic appearance to the casually uninformed observer of what is actually a highly calculated plan. Something that often happens when I am in the grip of a case and am using all my faculties to deduce, is that I will reel off a stream of instructions and get blank looks and even angry reactions from people who think I'm making fun of them or the situation. That's because I get so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I forget to share them, and therefore the people I'm working with miss out on the explanations behind my instructions. Once I fill them in they will generally see sense, and then they'll go along with my plans.

So what happens if there _is _a bigger plan being executed by some all powerful, all-knowing being? Well, a being so superior in perception and wisdom may well have a train of reasoning that no human is clever enough to follow or deduce. As a result all that we can perceive is a random string of unconnected and often brutal events that, without knowing the meaning of life itself, cannot be linked, and if they cannot be linked then unequivocal scientific evidence for a conscious design can never be proven. People are forever trying to deduce the meaning of life from the events that occur in the world. In my opinion they won't succeed by doing this alone: It's true that you need observation to deduce, but you also need _knowledge_, and unless God speaks down in a booming voice, or leaves some kind of concrete clue, that knowledge may forever remain beyond our grasp.

That's not to say we shouldn't try and make sense of life though; to do so is to cheat evil, and that is arguably my job as a detective. I examine the very extraordinary and grotesque and, through careful observation and deduction, link it back to the very ordinary and mundane.

So where does faith fit in? It's a catch-22 situation: Faith involves blindly following instructions or principles, believing without concrete proof that these are both well thought-out and are in the best interests of other people. Without knowing the meaning of life, we have to make do with finding a personal meaning, and accordingly choose what to believe and what to reject. And yet which instructions do you choose to follow under such circumstances?

If a person intends only to do good, then ideally every action they consider performing needs first to be categorised as good or bad, and then only the good actions performed. But categorising an action as good or bad is in itself debatable and a leap of faith, since in the process we are choosing to believein a certain set of principles. In detection, faith-based deduction of what action to take also depends on whether I believe some_one _is good or bad; and that's not always as simple as whether they are breaking the law or not. Killing in self-defence is a good example. Robbery might be another one if, for example, a person is stealing back something that has been stolen from them, or they are stealing a murder weapon before the murderer has a chance to use it. Those are very obvious examples, but there are much greyer shades too.

If the Bible is true, then it's strange how humans are called upon so often to have faith, when we're so ill-adapted to it. It goes against all our instincts. We like proof before we have faith, not the other way around. This is where John comes in. For someone so grounded in the material world he has a capacity for faith, the like of which I have never seen in anyone before. I may have an intuitive ability to cluster small details into big concrete facts, but John has a peculiar empathy and ability to connect with people that I just don't have. And I need that, because my abilities basically give me the power to say who goes free and who spends their life locked away in jail.

Sometimes I do get carried away. Even with all my abilities life is often still very difficult to navigate, and I am learning more and more that observation and deduction don't protect against errors of judgement. But I am still thankful every day that I am an amateur, and that I can follow my conscience in a way the professionals can't. And I also find it oddly comforting that there are questions you can spend a lifetime pondering over. The unknown is the one thing that links all humans across space and time, and at least one can never be bored by it.


	46. Molly's Murder: Rubbish Deductions

It's not as if I'm the tidiest person in the world myself, but when there are six overflowing bags of rubbish spilling out into the kitchen, poisonous chemicals being tipped down the sink daily, and unanswered mail stabbed onto the mantelpiece with a knife, I do begin to give myself virtuous airs. It's highly ORGANISED mess – or most of it is anyway, but it's still mess in astonishing quantities.

One morning I entered the kitchen to see the spidery figure of Sherlock hunched over, stock-still at one end of the room. "Sherlock?" He didn't answer. I picked my way across to him. "Everything ok?"

"Careful," he whispered as I approached, holding up a hand, "You'll scare it."

"Scare what?"

He pointed to a small hole in one of the bin bags. "Mouse," he said. "At least I think it's just mouse. It'll probably soon be mice. They breed very efficiently." He squatted down and peered into the bag.

"Right," I said, "This is just stupid. We've GOT to get the place sorted. It's barely habitable." I started to gather up the corners of one bin bag, and then changed my mind. "No, on second thoughts, _you_ do it – incidentally when was the last time you did it?"

"Oh not long ago," replied Sherlock airily. "A week…maybe two. Doesn't matter anyway."

"Well it needs to be done again, and it's definitely your turn!"

I sat down on the sofa and closed my eyes. Seconds later a Sherlock-shaped shadow fell across me. "What do you want?" I muttered.

"Can I have a bit of the sofa? I want to watch this." I opened my eyes slightly and he held up a DVD.

"What is it?"

"It's a DVD, John. Move over."

"No." I said, firmly.

"Well what can I do then?"

"Sort the rubbish out for a start," I suggested.

"I will…just not now." He studied the expression on my face. "Problem?"

"Seriously?" I registered his genuine incomprehension. "You can't move in the kitchen and the flat's got mice. Sort out the rubbish and maybe I'll be nice again."

Sherlock pouted, then seemed to come round to the idea. He even smiled. "Ok," he exclaimed, and with that he put his coat on and exited the flat.

I opened a window and then examined the rubbish bag Sherlock had been staring at. There was indeed a small hole in the base of it. I'm not quite sure how long Sherlock was gone for, but at some point I resorted to reading in the living room. Presently I heard the front door, a lot of rustling and thumping and some ragged breathing. He entered the room holding a full bin bag, a triumphant grin on his face. I sat up in astonishment. "You're actually going to DO it?"

He blinked. "What?"

I gestured at the bag. "Oh no, no, this is a foreigner," Sherlock explained. "I found it outside a house."

"I'm sorry?"

"Rubbish, John. It can tell you a lot about the inhabitants of a house."

"Ok, wait, let me get this straight," I said, passing a hand over my face in disbelief. "We have six bags of our own rubbish…and now you've brought a _seventh_ in that doesn't even belong to us and…oh _no_…"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was pulling items out of the rubbish bag in quick succession and arranging them strategically on the coffee table and the living room floor. "Right," he said at length, gesturing at the different surfaces on which the rubbish was displayed. "Recent rubbish, not so recent rubbish, old rubbish. What can we deduce? Come on, have a go. Something obvious will do."

"Your idea of obvious and my idea of obvious are very different."

"Still, try."

"OK, OK…anything to get that lot out the flat. Right…er…he liked baked beans?"

"Good. But how do you know it's a he?"

"Er…I don't. I guessed."

"Well don't, it's a terrible habit. What else?"

"He smoked. Cigarette box."

"Excellent!"

"That's everything."

"Well, it was better than your last effort at least."

"Really?"

"Arguably." Sherlock crouched down, picked up various items, examined them, sniffed them (turning my stomach) and read their labels. "What can you deduce?" I asked.

"The inhabitant of the house this came from is a man. A procrastinator, careless, used to be well off and well organised but now in financial difficulties which maybe led to his depression and subsequent disorganisation, in combination with the fact that he wants to get a date but can't, probably because he's an overweight slob."

There was a dead silence.

"How the _hell_ can you possibly know all that?"

"Look at the rubbish, John. It's all there."

"Take me through it, then."

"We know he's a procrastinator because the best before dates on this label are all about a month out of date. Therefore this rubbish bag, put out for collection today, has been sitting in his flat for at least a month…"

"Why does that sound familiar?"

"…That also shows us that he's single. If he waits a month to put out his rubbish he must have had a pile of it building up at the flat – it would have smelt and it would have attracted vermin. No woman would want to put up with that for weeks on end."

"Indeed."

"Add to that the fact that there's a flier from a dating agency here, and it's one that you need to pay for to receive. There are contacts circled in the women's' lonely hearts section. Therefore this is probably a man, and he's been trying to get a date.

"Now, his recent carelessness, disorganisation and financial difficulties are all shown by the fact that if we delve deep into the bin bag, to the earliest rubbish, we find an open envelope from the bank. That was most likely his bank statement, and the fact that they are open and there aren't any statements inside suggests that he's been filing them away like any sensible person would. However, when we look at the more recent rubbish there are unopened bank statements and opened bills. Also lottery cards which don't appear in the earlier rubbish. Therefore his bills were getting on top of him, and he didn't want to know how bad his situation was so he stopped opening his bank statements and threw them away – that shows he's become careless and disorganised; disorganised because he's not filing his bank statements or doing anything serious about his situation. Careless because he's chucking his bank details into a bin where anyone could find them. And the lottery cards were bought in the wild hope that he might strike lucky and solve all his problems at once. Perhaps his disorganisation was the reason why he delayed putting out his rubbish for so long."

"And his obesity?"

"Yes, didn't you see the cooking oil bottles? Two, large and empty – he fried a lot of things if he used up that much oil in about a month. Then there's all the streaky bacon, cheese and butter packets. And we know he was depressed because of this empty medicine bottle. The drug listed on the label is prescribed for depression."

"Brilliant. Pointless and disgusting, but brilliant."

"Meretricious," said Sherlock, failing to suppress his pleasure. "Rubbish is an easy field for obvious deduction." He looked smug. "Not so worried about the mess now, are you? Tidiness! It's overrated."

Suddenly Sherlock's face clouded. "There's a police car at the door," he stated, and I saw the blue light reflecting off a picture. Moments later Lestrade entered the living room, presumably having been let in by Mrs Hudson. He glanced at the rubbish strewn around the living room.

"What?" said Sherlock.

"Well first you should know that legally, until collected, rubbish is the property of the person who put it out. So if he wanted to, the owner of this lot could take you to court for theft."

"Oh," said Sherlock quietly, after a slight pause.

"Just wanted to give you a heads up," said Lestrade.

Lestrade has never been a barrel of laughs but today he seemed even more serious than usual. His mouth was pulled into a grim line and there was an awkward sadness in his eyes that I had never seen before. Sherlock was beginning to notice this as well, and despite the metaphorical mask he habitually wears, I could see puzzlement and even apprehension in his eyes. Lestrade sat down. "Molly Hooper was reported missing yesterday."

"Why wasn't I informed at the time?" Sherlock was indignant.

"Because…" Lestrade looked down. "Because we found her early this morning." He paused. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "…Or what was left of her anyway." Lestrade reached into his pocket and drew out three small, metal objects: A trouser button, a care bears broach, and a flower hairclip. All of them were severely blackened. I bent my head with a sigh. This _never _gets easier.

Sherlock crossed the room automatically, plucked the hairclip from Lestrade's fingers and studied it. His face was a waxwork. His hand dropped to his side and he licked his lips. "Burned," he said at length, putting the hairclip in one of his pockets.

"There were clothes and organic remains as well."

Sherlock was silent as he assimilated this. He seemed to be struggling inwardly. His face was blank, but his chest went up and down, up and down. "How?" he ground out.

"Garden bonfire."

"I'll find them," he finally resolved, standing up and pulling on his coat with feverish resolution. "Leads. Get me leads. Get me all the information you have – let me talk to the people who…found…her…show me the police and forensic reports, get me the addresses of family members – "

" – Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, stop. We know who did it and we know why. We've got him detained."

"Who?"

"James Macfarlane. He'd taken up a part-time job as a gardener with Molly's godfather."

There was a long pause, during which Sherlock slowly sat back down again. He put his fingertips together, then drew breath and laid his hands down on his lap, before putting them together again. Finally he spoke once more, almost inaudibly and to nobody in particular. "_Why?_"

"We're not sure yet but we checked his phone. He was trying to get Molly to go out with him and she wasn't interested. He was very persistent. He's been violent in the past, especially when drunk. Not only that, but we've confirmed that he was at the scene at the estimated time of lighting. He was clear on the breathalyser, but there was a gap of several hours." Lestrade waited for a response, but Sherlock gave none. "Coming?"

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded once, looking down and ahead, lips tight. Lestrade waited, but Sherlock made no move to get up. "Well," he said at length, a little uncomfortably, "I'll just…go on down. You…follow when you're ready. And…well, I'm sorry." Awkward by genuine sympathy clouded his face as he glanced at each of us in turn and left, as outside the flat the sun was shining, the streets were dry for the first time since the winter, and the blinds in the kitchen flapped in the breeze from the open window.


	47. Molly's Murder: Online News

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

It was some time before either of us spoke. Finally, Sherlock stood up decisively. "Molly's not dead," he said simply.

"Look, I know you want to believe that, Sherlock. So do I. But what Lestrade said sounded pretty clear cut."

"Molly's _not_ dead," he repeated resolutely, pulling on his coat and throwing his scarf over his shoulder.

"What makes you so sure?"

Sherlock hesitated. Then he turned slightly. "There is a very useful form of lead called a hunch, John. Useful, not because you act on it as though it was proven, as you would a guess, but because it gives you something to provide against. I'm off to find data to provide against it."

"Will you need me?"

"No, it's best if I do this one-to-one. If my hunch is right that James Macfarlane will be extremely shocked and bewildered at being detained. Two would be a crowd. I'll be back in a few hours." And with that he departed, leaving me wishing I knew what was going on in his mind.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-

While Sherlock was away, I surfed the online news, looking for any quick-acting journalists who had reported on the occurrence. I found only one article, but it was surprisingly detailed.

"A Miss Molly Hooper, who worked in the morgue at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, was reported missing last night. The last confirmed sighting of her was by a work colleague who wishes to remain unnamed. Molly and her colleague walked to the supermarket together, before parting ways. Police searched Molly's house, and her phone, keys and bag were absent, indicating that she went willingly from her home.

The short search came to an abrupt and tragic end in a shocking chance-find early this morning. Charred human remains were discovered at the home of Mr Jonas Greenwood of Bridgewater Close. Mr Greenwood was apparently the godfather of Molly Hooper, and though the two had been estranged since Molly's childhood, Mr Greenwood had made contact with Molly a few months previously, inviting her around to his house for tea. This had since become a regular occurrence. Mr Greenwood is an un-married architect of fifty-five who, whilst eccentric and reclusive, is well-known and respected in the neighbourhood after helping to renovate the local hospice.

Friends and family were shocked and saddened by the discovery. Mrs Edith Parker, a neighbour of Mr Greenwood who discovered the grisly find, states: "I could see smoke spiralling up over the hedge that separates our gardens. He has a timber shed so I thought maybe something had set it alight. Well when I got there it was just a bonfire, but it had this _horrible _smell. Like burned pork. And all this black stuff, but it was the remains of clothes and the metal hair clip that turned me sick, and that's when I dialled 999." When asked how Mr Greenwood had reacted: "Oh, he just couldn't believe it. We were both just so shocked. He kept on saying 'What can I do? What can I do?' and it was him who identified the hair clip and other remains as belonging to his god daughter. It's a dreadful, dreadful thing to happen."

Whilst the remains have yet to be confirmed as a DNA match for Miss Hooper, the odds are against her still being alive, especially now that a suspected murderer has been detained. The suspect, a Mr James Macfarlane, thirty-two, of Blackheath, had recently taken up the position of gardener for Mr Greenwood, and had come into contact with Miss Hooper on her visits to her godfather. With a known history of violence, as well as an unrequited love-interest in Molly, he has also admitted to being present at the time the bonfire was lit. Mr Greenwood was questioned briefly by police, but his innocence in the affair has been confirmed. He is in no doubts as to the murderer. Distraught, he said: "I don't care how long it takes to prove that man's guilt, but it has to have been him. There's nobody else it possibly could have been. I don't know how he did it, but I know he did. I loved my goddaughter, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to bring her killer to justice." The investigation is being handled by Detective Inspector Lestrade, a highly experienced officer who specialises in unusual and grotesque crimes such as this."

Well, none of that helped much. In my mind it only solidified that young man's guilt even further. And yet…a gut instinct was beginning to stir in me too that it all fitted together just a bit too well. I couldn't shake the feeling. I couldn't relax either, knowing that whatever new information Sherlock may have gained upon his return could be vital and skew everything we knew so far.

He was away for about two hours, and when he returned he had been transformed. His eyes were shining like diamonds and his face was flushed and animated. He was puffing a little and I suspected he had power-walked at least some of the way back before dashing up the stairs. "That man…" he said, standing over me and fixing me with a piercing, unblinking stare, "…Is innocent. I don't know who the real culprit is, and I don't know what exactly they've done to Molly, but it wasn't him."

"How do you know?"

"Because when I accused him of murdering Molly, he said 'I knew you'd come to that conclusion."

"But that's basically an admission!" I protested.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked in a low, excited voice. When I didn't answer he continued, words tumbling over themselves in his haste. "He knew his position, he knew he had a history of violence and that he was at the scene of the crime at the time it had taken place. And he was intelligent lad – he was very well spoken, his grammar was perfect and he'd gained a first in law at Oxford University. He knew his name looked very black and to deny it would only make him look like a liar too. So he didn't deny it – he accepted the inevitability of the accusation, even though he was shaking like a leaf."

Sherlock pulled me to my feet by the arm. I shook him off. "Get your coat," he instructed.

"Where are we going, crime scene?" I enquired, as we exited the flat, me still doing up my coat as we pattered down the stairs.

Sherlock looked round at me briefly, baffled. "What would be the point of that? You've read what happened online," he gestured to the laptop screen, "…The police have all the evidence, and I have the story straight from the horses' mouths. What we need to find now is something to back up my deductions about Macfarlane." Then, to himself, "Anderson was there and he does look _very _like a horse."

"And what about Molly?" I asked as we burst out the front door.

"Molly can wait."

"Yeah, because she's dead!"

"Molly's not dead." I didn't respond and after a few seconds he continued again at full pace. "We need to find out what happened to her in order to get to her, and we'll get a clue about that by finding out _why _it happened. This incident is the only lead we have, Lestrade and co. have made a pig's ear of it. Again." Sherlock hailed a cab.

"So what do we do?"

"First, I'd like to find out more about Macfarlane, Greenwood and Molly's interactions, as well as how he came to be employed by Greenwood. That seems just too much of a coincidence. There's just a chance that last point is crucial."

"And if we're not going to the crime-scene then where _are _we going?"

"Blackheath."


	48. Molly's Murder:  Blackheath

"So…what did you get from him?" I asked, as our cab picked its way through the mid-afternoon traffic and pedestrians.

"Well, as I said he was highly intelligent and soft-spoken."

"Unlike many gardeners."

"Only if you're stereotypical," Sherlock replied airily, which instantly made me realise how my comment must have sounded and regret it. "Besides, it's not an ideal climate to graduate into just now. "

"What did he say?"

"Not a lot. He liked Molly, she wasn't interested. He did have a criminal record and a history of violence. I tried my best to make him tell me exactly what it was he had done, but he wouldn't do it. I told him it would look bad for him if he refused to answer, and he said he didn't care; they'd already made up their minds about him. Besides, he said, if he _did _tell me he would only blacken the name of another, far more influential person, which would do nobody any good since this person was far more trusted than he was. I asked him if he knew anything about what had happened to Molly too."

"And…?"

Sherlock craned his neck to see the road ahead. "He said Molly was dead."

What little hope I had begun to build based upon Sherlock's conviction died away with that information. And yet Sherlock's eyes were keen and bright. "Well, there you go," I said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"He was there at the lighting of the bonfire. He must have seen the remains go on. Which logically suggests he was there when it happened."

"When what happened?"

"When Molly was..." I tailed off, lest I strike a nerve.

"Molly's not dead."

"For Christ's sake, what more proof do you need?"

"The rest of Macfarlane's story, for a start." I waited.

"Apparently Macfarlane was first employed in November as the gardener, after graduating from Oxford – as a sort of stop-gap. His mother once knew Greenwood. He said Greenwood was convinced he owed her a favour, and wanted to repay that favour by watching out for her son. Anyway, Macfarlane couldn't find work, so he was kept on. Well, then he got a part-time job as an assistant in a law-firm, which one time involved taking a trip out to the hospital to talk to a client. That's where he met Molly, and they became friends. This led to Macfarlane going over to Bart's more often, but when he expressed a love interest, she started fobbing him off, which made the friendship awkward. Anyway, Macfarlane had mentioned Molly to Greenwood a couple of times, but had no idea that Greenwood was Molly's godfather until she turned up for tea at the end of February. And Jonas Greenwood apparently had a talk with them both and told them that they had better reconcile their friendship, as he hoped Molly would be round more often and he didn't want either of them to feel awkward in each other's company. And he made them shake hands, like little children after a fight.

"Well, Macfarlane was still head over heels in love with Molly, but she wasn't interested. So he contented himself with her friendship, and seeing her when she came over for tea. That's why he stopped looking for law jobs – because he was happy enough gardening. Then, according to him, last evening he arrived later than usual to Greenwood's house. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Macfarlane had been cutting back the hedge, as well as replacing the garden gate and repairing the window frames with putty, and there was a large pile of things to be burned. Jonas Greenwood brought him a coffee and set a match to the first pieces of debris. He then told Macfarlane to slowly build up the fire and then go home – he could manage the rest. Besides it was getting on for seven, and that was when Macfarlane usually went home anyway. The first Macfarlane heard of the murder investigation was in the morning, when the police came to his house to arrest him."

"And you believe him?"

Sherlock looked at me as though I had gone mad. "Well of course, why wouldn't I?"

"Why _would _you?"

"Because as a lawyer if he'd wanted to lie about the case he'd have been more than able to do it in way that would convince the police, or at least get them talking. But he didn't try and fight the accusation, showing that if he _was _the murderer then he had very little imagination. And yet if he did lie then his whole story, which fits together perfectly, would have been made up on the spur of the moment for the police, and that shows a great deal of imagination. Therefore if he lied he was simultaneously showing very little imagination and lots of imagination, which is stupid to suggest. Therefore in all likelihood he was telling the truth."

"So…why are we going to Blackheath?"

"I want to talk to Macfarlane's mother and find out why somebody might want to frame him."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The house of Isabelle Macfarlane was a bungalow. Squat, grey and with minimal garden space, there was something terribly precise and yet, at the same time, strangely lonely about it. As though somebody had been so careful to keep it perfect that they had in the process drained it of any personality.

James Macfarlane's mother, on the other hand, was anything but drained of character. She was small and curvy, with flaxen hair, piercing grey eyes, wore a blue fur-lined top, a tight black skirt and high heels, and had blue eyelids and jewellery to match her top. As soon as we told her we were here about her son's conviction, she was up in arms. "Now look," she said in an over-enunciated accent, with an uncomfortable edge to her voice, "I know my James. I don't care what scientific evidence is pinned on him, or what you police-detective people – whatever you are – think, but my James didn't do this. Come in if you must and have coffee. I'll tell you anything if it will help end this silly farce."

To my surprise, Sherlock accepted, motioning me to sit down and do the same. I have never seen someone make coffee in such a flustered, angry manner. It wasn't simply the manner of someone worried for her son; it was the manner of someone who's pride had been acutely hurt. Sherlock noticed it too – as I saw from the way his intrigued eyes tracked her back and forth between the kitchen and the living room.

As soon as she had furnished us with coffee, she stood over us and fixed us with a determined gaze. "Whatever happened to that poor girl, mark my words it will have that creep Greenwood behind it." Behind Sherlock's feigned bafflement was acute interest, certainly, but another expression – one teetering on the brink of futility. "Why? " he asked, "Do you know him?"

"Do I know him?" She gave a hoot of derisive laughter. "Huh – _do _I know him alright." Were it not for the hard, cold, steely line that her mouth had become, I might have thought I saw a hint of softness creep into her eyes. "We were best friends once. Or rather he was my best friend and I was his _only _friend. And then we were lovers." She took an emery board from her breast pocket and began to file her nails. It certainly seemed to me as if this was a distraction-behaviour; that she was doing it in order to avoid having to watch us or focus on herself. "But…then I fell in love with another man – Matthew." She nodded at a picture hanging on the wall of a clean-shaven young man with shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes and wearing a red shirt. He had an easy, honest, open smile on his face. "Matthew is James's father. You couldn't have met a lovelier person on all of God's green planet…" her voice trailed away as she became absorbed in memories. Sherlock twitched in impatience.

"So what happened?" I prompted, before Sherlock could cut in with a remark that would spark yet more snappy anger.

"Well, we married. On my last night as an unmarried girl Greenwood and I met up. I gave him a photograph of the two of us, to remind him of the good times we had had together. He seemed grateful at the time. So I settled down with Matthew, and I got pregnant. We got a house together, and old Greenwood was left on his own. He deserved it. I'd always stuck by him and forgave him for his faults. Nobody else would go near him. I mean, the man didn't take much care of himself, he had a foul temper, he hardly ever spoke and he was very, very paranoid." I couldn't help thinking at this point that this woman was incredibly two-faced. Here she was pretending to be good friends with this man, whilst all the time loathing him and quite possibly saying so to everyone behind his back. No wonder Greenwood was paranoid. "And he was the most disgusting little voyeur when he was jealous," she continued with repulsion. I glanced at Sherlock and saw that the hope and interest had gone from his eyes. "I was always looking over my shoulder when Matthew and I were together. When James arrived he backed off a bit. So everything went smoothly until James was sixteen. Then Matthew fell from a ladder mending the roof and broke his neck." She swallowed and pulled a handkerchief out from her sleeve. "It was a freak accident, but it left me alone in the world with a child to raise.

"Now, as you can see I am not the strongest of women, easily preyed on by more cunning people. It was about then that Greenwood showed up. After all those years he'd still been monitoring me from a distance, and now that I was free again he was going to seize the opportunity. He was nice enough at first. In the intervening time he'd become the well-loved, well-regarded man he is now. Now, I, being the forgiving type I am, invited him for supper, and that night, then and there, only one month after my husband's death, he proposed to me. Naturally I was shocked and said no, and he insisted, getting onto his knees and proclaiming his love. Then he tried to kiss me. Well, I'm no doormat so I slapped him. And he…" she gasped and turned pale, "…He grabbed my wrists, and I screamed and James came running in. He'd always been a timid, peaceful boy until then, but he wasn't going to stand to see his dear Mum being treated like that, so he broke a chair over that freak's head. Then he knocked his lights out." Her cheeks were blazing now and her eyes were burning with pride.

"And what did you do after that?" Interrupted Sherlock.

"I hugged him and told him how proud I was of him, and told him what a pervert Jonas Greenwood was, and all the grief he had given me over the years." She glared at our feet. "James paid for it with a criminal record. We tried to protest, but as I said Greenwood already had far too good a reputation. Pinning the blame on him would be like claiming the Pope tried to molest the Queen. They simply didn't believe him. The papers are saying he has a history of violence but _you – _you know the truth don't you? You know his intentions were noble!" She stared imploringly. "Please clear his name for me. I can't live without him, you know."

"Well," Sherlock said, standing up and handing his now empty mug to Isabelle. "This has been a very helpful visit. Thank you for your time, Isabelle."

"I've helped clear my James's name then?"

"Nope," said Sherlock, straightening his scarf, "Actually you've strengthened the evidence against him considerably. But you've answered another important question I had, so not to worry." Sherlock made a move towards the door but Isabelle Macfarlane blocked his path, quivering all over. "Explain," she ground out between her teeth.

"The police will say that your extreme pride at his violence may have gone some way to putting him in the position he is in now. Goodbye."

"Wait…one more thing you should see…" she darted past Sherlock, briefly laying a hand on his chest as she went past as an entreaty to wait. When she returned, she was holding a photograph; the one of Greenwood and Isabelle that Isabelle had described being given on her last unmarried night. Except…Isabelle had no face. The face had been roughly scratched away with the blade of a knife, leaving only tattered white paper fibres. "That's how he returned it to me, just after the whole incident occurred," she whispered.

Back in the taxi, Sherlock was strangely quiet and morose. I asked him what was up. "Nothing, I'm fine," he shot back reflexically. Then, on consideration: "I wanted to talk to James's mother because I wanted to prove that he didn't have the character to murder anyone. I got the opposite to what I wanted. It's not proof, and it's not strong evidence, but…" in a rare instance of self-doubt Sherlock trailed off. "Oh, I don't understand!" he burst out in annoyance, just as my phone beeped. "I just _know _it's all wrong, but the facts all fit _Lestrade_'s theory, and…well…that _can't _be right! It just can't!" He clasped and unclasped his hands in a paroxysm of conviction. "Who's that?" he added, glancing at me as I scrolled down the text.

"It's Lestrade." I looked up, my heart heavy. "He's been to see Molly's parents." I tried to think of a gentle way to tell him. "The vicar was there as well. Molly was always very fond of you. And apparently her parents want…they want you to read a short piece out at her funeral the day after tomorrow."

"But…but Molly's not dead," said Sherlock, genuinely confused.

"I'm afraid she is," I said, as gently as I could. "The DNA sample from the burnt remains was a perfect match."


	49. Molly's Murder: Damning Evidence

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Grief is different for everyone, but I think there's one thing every grieving person has in common. Even if they you knew the dead person only fleetingly, you have in some ways to re-evaluate and re-adjust your life in accordance with the fact of their death. It is as if each person is a strut, and together they form an intricate and perfectly balanced structure that is your own life-perception. The people you know well and spend much of your time in the company of are the central struts, and the people you see only fleetingly from time to time, or didn't know for very long, are the outer ones built around the centre. It doesn't matter whether the struts are satellite ones or central ones; if one of them is removed the whole structure is affected. If it's a central strut, the whole structure comes crashing down, and sometimes people don't realise how long the repairs take. And it takes time and it takes huge amounts of energy. And because of that it doesn't get easier – it gets more gruelling over time. It can take a lifetime, and even when it's repaired, the structure without its strut is altered forever.

I made a slight error of description in the previous paragraph. I said that the people you see most are probably the central struts and the ones you see least would be outlying ones. Well, that's not strictly true all the time; someone can have a huge impact on your life after only having met them once, or even after only talking online. Sherlock doesn't have friends as such, but there are certainly people who form central struts in his life, even though he only sees them in passing in his work, or out of choice. Mycroft is certainly a central strut in Sherlock's life. He may be an awkward-fitting one in some ways, but he is central, and if anything happened to him it would affect him considerably. Maybe not in the conventional ways, but still have a big effect. Lestrade, too. Sherlock may not give Lestrade much respect as most people know it, but he listens, and he does, to some extent, what Lestrade says, albeit often with protest. If anything happened to Lestrade, I have a strong suspicion that Sherlock would take it personally and lay the full blame on himself. Now Molly. Unlikely Molly, diffident Molly, gentle Molly, persistent Molly, innocent Molly. Sherlock definitely didn't feel for her what she felt for him, but somehow after several years of working together, she had wormed her way into his esteem and earned his respect. She had become a central strut, and I don't think Sherlock realised that…and now that she was gone for good it hit him hard.

He was up and pacing all evening, poker-faced and deep in thought. He picked up his violin to play but didn't. I knew there was nothing I could do to help, and I doubted Sherlock would appreciate it even if I had tried to intervene. Finally he threw on his coat and scarf and made for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Can I help?"

"No."

And with that he disappeared.

I kept myself awake by reading and bad-clarinetting and surfing, but at three in the morning my eyes started to get dangerously heavy. I kept almost dozing off and waking up with my forehead touching the top of the laptop. So I put the laptop down and tried to read again. The story became progressively more lurid and surreal…I had no idea Bernard Maclavity could be so trippy. It was at that point that I opened my eyes and saw the real words…and the sunlight. It was nine in the morning and a draught was coming from the front door of the flat.

I closed the door, thinking that either Sherlock had got back, or we'd somehow been burgled. The door to his room was open. I poked my head round, and did a double take. Sherlock was lying face-down on the bed, still in his coat and scarf.

"Hello." I said, feeling a bit foolish.

A muffled voice came out of the pillow. "Leave me alone."

Of course, when somebody says that, it's impossible to obey them. I crossed the room with mounting disbelief, mixed with curiosity. "You're…are you…you're not…_crying_ are you?"

"No," mumbled the pillow.

"Are you upset about Molly?"

"No. Sociopath, remember."

"Hmmm. So what did you find out?"

"Nnrthn."

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing that I didn't know already." One hand reached out and groped around for his phone, which was on the bedside table. He thrust it in my direction. There was a text from Lestrade: "No point investigating alternative theories. We have damning evidence."

"Lestrade's little self-glorifying fanfare," he explained.

My sympathy turned in that moment to irritation. This wasn't grief over a lost friend; it was the shame of being beaten by someone whom Sherlock considered to be inferior.

"Look," I told him as nicely as I could. "Get up. You're being a drama queen."

"What's the point?"

"What's the point in getting up?"

"Mmm."

"Did I hear correctly? Sherlock, there's an innocent man in a cell and nobody knows except for us! _And _the person who murdered Molly is still at large!" I decided to be assertive. "Today we're going to the crime scene. I know it's old, but if Lestrade found something damning then maybe you can find something absolving."

There was a pause, and Sherlock rolled over onto his back. Then he sat up and rubbed his tired face. "The remains _were_ Molly's," he said. "I spent all night running and re-running the tests on the remaining sample just to make sure. I thought maybe someone had used Molly's blood or something to cover the real victim. But it was definitely her DNA. All of it. There was no question. It was in surprisingly good condition, having been burned."

"Well…" I said, slowly, "The best we can hope to do now is find out how she died, who killed her and why she was killed."

"I've never been wrong about a hunch before. I've failed because I've been too sure of my abilities, and I've failed because I've been slapdash before, and I've failed because I wasn't able to _prove _my solution. But the hunches have always been right. I _knew _Molly wasn't dead…" he looked positively unnerved.

"Well…there's a first time for everything. " A nod. "You need breakfast."

"Don't eat when – "

" – You do this time. I'll do the chopped bacon and potato thing. How does that sound?"

Sherlock contemplated this, and then the corners of his mouth turned up a tiny fraction, and he inclined his head very slightly.

"I'll need your support today," he admitted quietly, meeting my eye for a second.


	50. Molly's Murder: Another Clue

**_Posted by John H. Watson_**

Jonas Greenwood's house was old-fashioned, grey and made of stone, but had a new garage and extension. There were two large windows in the old part of the lower level, and two dormer windows in the upper level, each sheltered by a triangular hood. There must at least have been an attic of some kind, because the slated roof itself sported two velux windows. The house had two chimneys in the old part, each at either end of the roof. The extension appeared to be made of concrete, painted white, but with small, old-fashioned, wooden windows set in it.

The garden was surrounded by a high hedge and was very large for London, making me suspect, given the economic climate and Greenwood's job as a builder, that this was a family house, passed down through the generations. The lawn was well-cut and the flower beds looked trim and healthy. There were even a couple of trees and several shrubs and bushes opposite the house. I saw the wooden tool shed the article had mentioned, as well as the ashes of the dreaded bonfire. I tried to distract Sherlock's attention before he registered them.

Lestrade and Jonas Greenwood were waiting for us in the kitchen, which was, once again, old-fashioned and wood-themed. Greenwood himself was a large man, but the largeness was mostly in his build; he was not conspicuously tall. He had not aged particularly well, and walked with a slight stoop that possibly came more from a reclusive temperament than some kind of physical pain or stiffness. His hair was grey, but there were still faint traces noticeable of the strawberry-blonde colour it had once been. He had the whiskery beginnings of a beard, a roman nose and thin, white lips. His eyes were small and cagey, yet a clear blue, and he had a quiet, husky, rather uncertain voice with a well-refined accent.

"What?" Sherlock asked as we entered the kitchen.

"This." Lestrade held up a clear plastic wallet in which the 'damning evidence' had been secured. Sherlock plucked the bag from Lestrade, irreverently tore it open and pulled out a small, sharp, wooden-handled knife. Dried blood was caked on the blade, and mixed in with the encrusted putty on the handle there was an unmistakably clear and uniform blooded thumb print.

Lestrade cut in on Sherlock's thoughts. "We took a fingerprint from Macfarlane this morning. It's a perfect match."

"Oh, interesting," Sherlock muttered, staring at the knife with a blank expression.

"Interesting? It's proof!" Lestrade seemed indignant at Sherlock's noncommittal response.

"It's final alright," said Sherlock, but his eyes and his voice were odd. He turned his face away – which is invariably sign that he's struggling with some emotion or other. "Excuse me…" And with that, he marched out the room.

I jumped up and hurried after him, ignoring Lestrade's protests. Once through in the hall I closed the door. I was about to ask Sherlock whether he was coping, when I saw that he was doubled over, quivering, fingertips pressed together tightly over his lips, with one of the biggest grins I had ever seen plastered across his face.

"What's going on?" I demanded.

"I knew it. I KNEW it!" he whispered, in extreme excitement.

"Knew what?" I demanded impatiently.

"That there was something not right. C'mon John…" and with that he rushed out the door in a whirlwind of activity.

"What are we doing?" I asked hurrying after him to the extension. "Finding evidence." He turned to look at me and saw my blank expression. "Still as slow as ever," he muttered, before hastily adding, "The knife, John. It had putty on it. He'd been repairing the windows with _putty_."

"So?"

"Putty's malleable. Very convenient for making fingerprints in. That's not the only odd thing. The knife had blood on the blade – it had been made to look like Molly had been stabbed with it – "

" – _Made_ to look like it?"

"Yes." He was speaking breathlessly, and as he did so he dropped to his knees and started scooping handfuls of soil out of the shrubbery pots, one after another, and scattering it on the ground. "If Molly was stabbed the blade would have come out cleaner than that – you don't get massive coatings of blood on a knife that's pulled from a wound; the pulling wipes off the blood until you just have smears. Mistake number one. Mistake number two: The knife had other matching fingerprints underneath it – not as clear because they were made by putty, but still visible. They matched the thumb print and Macfarlane's. So he had the knife in his hand before his hands were covered in blood, so far, so obvious. But who stabs someone, then puts the knife down, then dips only their thumb into the blood from the wound, picks up the knife and presses the blooded thumb into the handle?"

"So it's a plant?"

"Has to be."

"By who?"

"Who do you think?" He turned to look at me. "Who's the one untouchable person in this whole charade?"

Suddenly he stopped dumping clods of earth onto the paving and gave a cry of triumph. In his hand he held a roughly cut piece of putty.

"Look at that!" he exclaimed, thrusting it under my nose. I looked, and saw the unmistakable outline of a thumb print indented into one side. And the thumb print was stained with blood.

"Oooooh…" Sherlock whispered. "That's vindictive. Vindictive and _brilliant_."

"So Molly's alive?"

Sherlock looked at me, eyes blazing. "Quite possibly," he answered. "We have to get the blood tested to find out if it's Molly's blood. If it is, that proves nothing except for the fact that she was here during or just after the time that Macfarlane was repairing the windows. We need to search the house," and cradling the piece of putty in his hand, he jumped up and started briskly back to the house, leaving scattered shrubs, roots and compost all over the path.

"Sorry we took so – " I broke off and Sherlock stopped in surprise. The situation in the kitchen had altered dramatically in our absence. Lestrade was standing over Greenwood, who was handcuffed to the cooker. Greenwood had broken out in sweat and was breathing hard, staring at the floor and grinding his teeth in frustration.

"Kinky," commented Sherlock, eyes flicking between Lestrade and Greenwood.

"Tried to make a run for it," Lestrade explained. "He got all edgy once you left. Then he kept going to the window to and looking out, and shortly after that he rushed through the door. I caught him in the hall."

"Well, you have your talents." For a brief second Lestrade radiated pride, then realised the insult disguised under the complement, and restrained himself from protesting.

"He won't answer any questions."

"Doesn't need to." Sherlock handed Lestrade the piece of putty. I could see from Lestrade's face as he examined it, that he knew what it meant.

"Search the house?" And in a rare moment of mutual agreement, Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade stayed with Greenwood in the kitchen, while Sherlock conducted a thorough investigation of every room in the house. Each room was paced out, each wall was tapped, the workings of each window were carefully examined, each cupboard opened and all the walls of _that _tapped, and the book cases had all the books pulled from them and were shaken violently. The chimneys of the two open fires were also carefully scrutinised, and in each room Sherlock would drop down onto his hands and knees and examine every inch of the carpet. But there was no tell-tale hyperventilating – just absolute stillness and concentration.

He was still in the dark. I remembered something Sherlock had said on a previous case, about DNA analysis being all very fine and good, but if we weren't careful the old-school methods of detection would die out and we would suffer for it. Watching him examine this room, having already tested the DNA and come up with nothing new or useful, I realised just how true this was.

It wasn't until we were upstairs, having examined the landing and all the bedrooms, that Sherlock suddenly leaned against a wall and broke into a wide smile. "What have you found?" I asked him.

He indicated the hallway. "The first floor. Six feet shorter than the ground floor."

"And that has to mean…" I said, cottoning on, and Sherlock nodded, knowing what I was about to say. "So which wall?"

Sherlock wandered back along the landing to the bedroom at one end. It had a window on the end wall. "Not this one," he said, and jogged back down the landing to the second, unused bedroom. There was a film of dust on the floor that was broken only by our footsteps and some foreign ones that looked like boots. "Promisinger and promisinger," quipped Sherlock, and began knocking gently on every inch of the wooden wall. It was just under half of the way along that he suddenly stiffened, then gave three quick knocks, and then another three a few inches to the right. Then, tracing the hollow frame by sound, he knocked all round the edge of it. It was a door approximately five foot tall and four foot wide. "There's gotta be a way in," he muttered. Then his gaze fell on the edge of the carpet against the wall. It dipped down. I followed his gaze up, and saw a hinge system concealed by shadows and wall paper.

"Molly?" Sherlock put his ear to the wall and listened intently. He shook his head and dropped to his knees. Even with his thin, spidery fingers, it took a good few seconds to push them into the tiny space, and then to wrench until, with a juddering resistance, a section of the wall began to swing upwards and outwards, revealing a tiny, wooden, attic-like room. He stood up, eyes wide with expectancy, and together we surveyed our find.

It was about six by six feet, stuffy, dark, strewn with objects, deserted and smelled strongly of solvents. Sherlock squatted down once more, and examined each object in turn. There was a cloth handkerchief, an open box of matches, an unlabelled empty glass bottle which he sniffed with some puzzlement, a hypodermic syringe, and a kitchen knife with tatters of skin on the blade. A tub of terpentine in the corner was the source of the smell. Sherlock cocked his head at this, staring at it like a peg that would not fit neatly into any hole. Then a second later he gave a sharp intake of breath, and his face contorted. I joined him by the tub, and soon saw why. Lying at the bottom was a crumpled white blouse – Molly's blouse.


	51. Molly's Murder: Up and Out

_**Posted by John H. Watson **_

_[J.W. The poem 'sympathy', laid out here, is written by Emily Bronte, not by me]_

Try as we might, Jonas Greenwood would not answer any questions. Not in the house or in the police station, not when cautioned by Lestrade, not when entreated by me, not when threatened by Sherlock. In the end we returned to the house and conducted yet another thorough search, putting all the evidence from the boarded up room and the bonfire into a bag, with the exception of the tub of terpentine, which Sherlock photographed from all angles with his mobile phone.

Jonas Greenwood did not own a computer, but he did own a basic mobile phone. While Sherlock checked his mail I checked the texts on this. The clever bugger had wiped every message except for one in the inbox, which presumably had arrived after his arrest: "It took longer than usual, being out of the ordinary." I showed this to Sherlock, who stared at the screen for a long time without speaking. Finally, he took the phone from me, pocketed it and leaned against a wall, deep in thought. "Can't do much else here," he remarked, his brow furrowed. He gave a frustrated snarl. "Something…_something _is getting away. There's a clue – it's on the tips of my fingers…" Sherlock's phone beeped. It was Lestrade, acting middle man again for Molly's parents. The text read: "Funeral 11:00am tomorrow, Temple Church. Bright clothes. Request Sherlock read Emily Bronte's 'Sympathy'. Arrive early and sit at the front."

Sherlock closed the phone, turned it off and tapped it thoughtfully against his chin. "I don't have bright clothes," he said at last.

"Well…you've got that shirt that makes you look like a watermelon."

"Hmm." The fraction of a smile he allowed in response to this was a mere token. His eyes were narrowed and his thoughts were veiled. "Are we done here?" I prompted him. He gave one last look around the kitchen and nodded.

The majority of the evening was spent in half-pensive, half-melancholy silence. Sherlock had cleared his desk, spread out all items of evidence and now sat absolutely still with his head in his hands. Every now and then his lips would move and his eyebrows would raise, but a second later he simply shook his head and lapsed back into brooding. Eventually he took the bottle and the hypodermic syringe, opened his laptop and spent an hour typing, searching and sourcing. Then he fired off a text. "The hospice." His voice eventually broke in on my own reflections.

"Hmm?"

"The sedative and the syringe both came from the hospice. Makes sense – he visited regularly ever since helping to renovate it. It would be easy for him to nick a bottle if just one of the nurses were a bit negligent."

"So we've got a way forward? Molly's at the hospice?"

"I've told Lestrade to search the place."

"Do you still think she's alive?"

"More than ever. Why she's still alive, I don't know. Where she is, I haven't the faintest. But stealing sedatives means leaving an extra footprint of crime, and a criminal wouldn't make that decision lightly. If Greenwood had just been planning to kill her, he would have done it. Smothered her with a pillow or something while she was still tied up. If he used sedative then in all probability he's keeping her alive…but for what, John?"

I could only shrug. Sherlock looked at me out the corners of his eyes, and his lips were parted in hesitation. "We'll go to the funeral tomorrow," he said, "But only because it might give us more clues. Molly's not dead."

Neither of us slept that night. We left early the next morning and took a taxi to the church. In fitting with the specified dress code I had decided to wear my zebra jumper, and Sherlock was wearing his watermelon shirt. He really mustn't have believed she was dead, even when a text from Lestrade confirmed that Molly was not at the hospice. He was in relatively good spirits and occupied himself by staring out the taxi window, tapping his fingers against the seat and gently humming the Funeral March. Me, I wasn't nearly as convinced. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something oppressive about the day.

We were early at the church, as Lestrade had specified. The décor was rather alarming. Each chair had a rainbow-coloured order of service on it, and there were rainbow garlands over each window and door frame. The table at the front was decked in flowers, and covered with a rainbow drape. . It wasn't hard to recognise Molly's parents. Though her hair was greying and she wore large, round, thick glasses, Molly's mother was simply an older version of Molly. Her father was taller, skinnier, slightly older and had a long nose and pointy ears. He was owl-eyed and silent, seemingly stunned by the events that had struck so suddenly and relentlessly, like a beating. She was red-eyed from crying, and yet greeted us with a brave smile and a hand shake. "So, you must be Sherlock," she said, turning to him.

Sherlock shook her hand. "Sorry," he said with as much feeling as he could muster, given his conviction that Molly was alive.

"Oh, thank you, my love. It's hard on everyone." Sherlock nodded, brow furrowing in carefully calculated sympathy. "We were wondering,,," Molly's mother picked up an order of service from a nearby seat. She opened it and handed it to Sherlock, indicating the passage he was to read. "Do you know it?" Sherlock's eyes flicked over the text, and his lips moved occasionally as he read the poem. He shook his head. "No…no I don't know it."

"Are you happy to read it out?"

"Um…Yes, of course," he muttered, chin on his chest, eyebrows drawn down.

"You know," continued Molly's mother, struggling, it seemed, for conversation, "Molly spoke a great deal about you. She was very fond of you. We always used to tease her about it." She stopped and covered her face with her hands, and Sherlock, in a rare display of sympathy, placed his hand on her arm. And then other people started to arrive and Molly's parents went away to greet them.

When the coffin was brought in, Sherlock seemed to perk up. He tapped me on the shoulder. "You see that?" He pointed at the coffin.

"Yeah."

"Odd."

"Why?"

"Look how deep it is."

"Well, I suppose it does seem a bit deep, but it's an elaborate one."

"Hmm." Sherlock lapsed back into his own introspections.

The funeral began with Train's 'Soul Sister'. I'd heard the song in various shops and on the radio and never much cared for it before. The singer always seemed to me to be yelling the words, rather than singing them. And the beat annoyed me too. But now, in this Molly-centred, bitter-sweet celebration, the words had an incredible poignancy. It struck me then that it didn't really matter whether Molly was alive or dead: The funeral was packed with people of all ages, bursting with flowers, and a collective love that is celebratory of a great life flowed commonly through the congregation. Alive or dead, it was a magnificent testimony to a person who had given herself as freely and genuinely as is humanly possible, and in each instance asked for very little in return; in fact seemed unaware of her abilities and kindness. The minister (it was a religious service) spoke of Eudemonia – a state of objective metaphorical flourishing, and read some extracts of C.S. Lewis's 'The Problem of Pain'. During the two prayers that were offered I felt it would be hypocritical of me to pray along simply out of politeness, but I did bow my head and close my eyes. I think Sherlock was too preoccupied with the coffin to do likewise.

And then Sherlock's turn came. He stood up and made his way to the front, oddly shy. I had never seen him perform like this; in front of a crowd, as himself and, to a certain extent, case-less. His eyes flicked up and down between the text and the congregation, and he cleared his throat before beginning to read in a soft yet clear and ever so slightly hesitant voice:

_There should be no despair for you_

_While nightly stars are burning,_

_While evening pours its silent dew_

_And sunshine guilds the morning._

_There should be no despair, though tears _

_May flow down like a river._

_Are not the best beloved of years _

_Around your heart forever?_

_They weep, you weep, it must be so,_

_Winds sigh as you are sighing._

_And winter sheds its grief in snow, _

_Where Autumn's leaves are lying._

_Yet these revive, and from their fate_

_Your fate cannot be parted._

_Then journey on, if not elate, _

_Still, NEVER broken hearted!_

The silence was thick and weighty as he finished. Sherlock looked up, mouth slightly open in awkwardness, and then he gave a tiny smile before slipping back down into the pew to sit beside me. "Good reading," I whispered, and he nodded, his mask-like countenance returning like oil settling back over the top of water.

The funeral ended with 'Shine' by Take That. Sherlock was not impressed. We then rose from our seats as the coffin was carried out. "Look, look…" he said.

"What?"  
"All those people…just to carry one fairly small woman?"

"What are you saying?"

"Don't know…" he murmured abstractedly, as we made our way out the church with the rest of the funeral wake. "So many things are wrong…but how do they _fit _together?"

The cemetery was a fifteen minute walk away when walking slowly and in a group of people. Sherlock eyed my hand for several seconds at one point, and then folded his arms decisively. I suspected that despite his conviction about Molly, the sombre atmosphere was rubbing off on him and he, in his own way, had just wanted that simple reassurance which is so quickly misinterpreted by people driven by implication and suggestion rather than by friendship and practicality. For a scientist he is very easily affected by the general mood or décor around him. Once at the graveside, Molly's mother, father and grandparents all took a rope on the coffin and lowered it into the ground.

It was during the buriel prayer that all chaos broke loose. Sherlock's head suddenly snapped up. "OH!" he exclaimed, eyes stretched wide. Then he shoved his way forwards and caught up a rope. "Get a rope, everyone – anyone! Quick-quick-quick! Pull her up now!"

"What's going on?" Molly's mother asked, and the minister stared daggers at him.

"Molly's not dead, I knew it – I KNEW it!" As he spoke he thrust ropes into the hand of Molly's mother, Molly's father, the minister and two other people that we didn't know. They stared like frightened rabbits. "Pull her up, come on, come _on,_" Sherlock shouted, frantically trying to jog them into action. As they obeyed, words cascaded out of him, probably not entirely consciously. "Took longer than usual being out of the ordinary, and what do we have but a coffin that's too deep and much too heavy? The knife is a red herring, and I have it…" The coffin now up, he dived into his coat pocket and brought out the 'damning evidence' – "…Here!" He began feverishly working the screws of the coffin loose as he spoke. "The blood too, and the DNA sample that matched Molly's. I can't explain now…oh!" And with that he wrenched off the lid of the coffin, yanked the blackened body out and with a brief 'excuse me', threw it to one side. Not often you get to see people fainting, screaming and vomiting in real life, let alone in this kind of scenario. Sherlock simply took off his coat, laid it over the remains, lifted a second body out of the coffin and laid it down on the ground. This one was wrapped in a blanket and had a dishcloth over its face. Sherlock whipped the dishcloth away, and it was Molly.

"John, she's not breathing – I think it's a sedative overdose from the dish towel. Make her breathe. And Molly", he added dispassionately to her limp form as he stood up, "If you love me, and I know you do, then start breathing." And he took out his phone and, for the second time in his life, dialled 999.

-/-/-/-/-/-

As we sat in the emergency waiting room of Bart's hospital, Sherlock passed the minutes by blandly recounting how he'd realised that Molly would be in the coffin. "The hypodermic syringe. That was used to take a blood sample to contaminate the wooden knife. The kitchen knife with skin tatters – that one was used to take a sample of Molly's skin. The empty bottle – that was the sedative, and it was put on the dish towel, but I didn't know that until I saw her. I just knew she'd been sedated at some point."

"And what about the matches and the tub of turpentine?"

"Matches – to burn the skin sample taken from Molly, so that it could be swapped for sample from the body that _was _on the bonfire. Greenwood knew his forensics, but not well enough: It wasn't burned enough, which is why the DNA was in surprisingly good condition when I analysed it. Her shirt – Greenwood must have burned Molly's things in a pile and dropped that on the way out. The turpentine – that was a blind."

"A blind?"

"Yes, to hide the smell of the burnt skin sample. Not the first time I've seen one strong smell be used to cover another. And you know what it was all for already."

"Revenge on Macfarlane's mother for turning him down?"

"Yes, and presumably on Macfarlane too, for defending her. Two birds with one stone – Macfarlane gets life in prison, and his mother gets the shame and sadness of having a son who is a murderer. That man is clever – really clever." Sherlock's eyes took on an inward smile of approval.

It was then that the door opened, and a doctor made a beeline for us, and his facial expression told us all we needed to know.


	52. Molly's Murder: The Resurrection

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Sherlock and I sat in silence once the doctor had finished telling us that Molly had been pronounced dead a few minutes earlier. I saw Sherlock looking at my hand again, so I took his.

"I failed," he said simply.

"Well, technically you solved the case," I reminded him. He shrugged. "And the police can trace Greenwood's accomplices from the text message on his phone – "

" – There has to be something else, John," he cut in, turning to me with eyes full of urgency.

"What do you mean?"

"All that work to get to her, and then she didn't make it. There has to be some kind of compensation after this." He clenched his jaw, "Because if there isn't then life's a sick _joke_." He spat the last word with vehemence, and the knuckles gripping my hand turned white for a moment.

"It wasn't your fault," I told him, feeling foolish and inadequate.

He nodded, then shook his head. "That's never happened before."

"What, you've never lost a colleague?"

"No…no," he jerked his head impatiently. "I mean, I've never suffered an eclipse like that before. Of my abilities. Not one as complete anyway. There were clues in that case, a thousand clues. I didn't put any of them together."

"Well then I share the blame as much as you."

"No but it's different for me – I'm clever."

"Of course you are."

"You know what I mean."

"Sorry."

Sherlock paused and looked me right in the eye. "What should I do now?" he asked earnestly.

"What do you mean?"

"If I can't put clues together I can't be a consulting detective. Observation and deduction…they're all very well but if they don't get results…" his voice tailed off hopelessly.

"Sherlock," I told him firmly, "When a person breaks a bone it's extremely serious and it hurts like hell at the time, but it mends. And when it mends it grows back stronger. If you've made mistakes on this case you'll never make them again."

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm a doctor," I reminded him, "Trust my diagnosis."

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

You may have realised by this point that John has trouble finishing off his case write-ups and quite often leaves the final words to someone else. Well he likes playing with his reader's emotions like a game of cat and mouse. I'm not nearly as cruel: This case has a happy ending.

After John had assured me that I was not losing my touch, I went to see Molly's body. It was strange seeing her laid out in her own morgue. She was still warm to the touch, and now that she was in a hospital gown I could see the bruises where Greenwood had tied her up and taken blood, and the ugly hole where he had dug out skin. Nobody had bothered to dress the wound. After all, they'd all been busy trying to revive her.

I walked all around the slab. Rigor mortis had not yet set in but then, she had been dead for under an hour. I lifted up her hand, and her arm swung loosely at the elbow. It did occur to me that her blood was not pooling in the way most dead people's blood does, and her nails were still slightly pink. However, it takes a little while for blood to redistribute. Just to be sure though I pinched the skin on the back of her hand, and was surprised to see it fall straight back into place upon letting it go. That is unusual for a corpse. Cardiac failure and arrest generally cause water to redistribute under the skin, thus decreasing its elasticity. This is also what starts to happen as you become elderly.

It was then that I started to think to myself about clustering the things I was observing. The blood not pooling, the pink tinge to the fingernails, the very elastic skin. It all pointed towards one wildly unlikely deduction. Just out of curiosity I pulled back an eyelid, and although my brain has always governed my heart I felt an unstoppable rush of relief and hope. Her pupils were not fully dilated! I put a hand on her chest, and after a few minutes I felt a brief flutter that slowly, slowly grew stronger and faster, like a sunrise.

I tried to work out how the doctors could have been so stupid and pronounced her dead. Well, to be honest I will never know the answer to this for sure, but since nothing hinges upon it I can make an educated guess. There was never a point during her sedation that she was not either kept cold or ventilated. That little room at Greenwood's, although fairly airless, had no windows and no heating. Then at some point Molly was handed over to Greenwood's accomplices; the nature of the text message on Greenwood's phone suggests that they did not work together. There she would have been kept more heavily sedated until the funeral, probably lying in her coffin in a cold area of the Undertaker's. And then she was swamped in volatile sedatives with the dish towel for the funeral. And it had been a nippy day. After she had been rescued from the coffin CPR was immediately commenced, so even though her body was warming up and thus using up more energy, her brain was still getting adequate oxygen to function. And it was still functioning extremely sluggishly because of the drug overdose. The sedatives would have deeply depressed her central nervous system, leading to a loss of vital signs to an extent reminiscent of brain death.

And now in the morgue she was cold again, which was buying her time, but her heart was beating fairly well now. If I hovered the back of my hand over her lips I could feel an intermittent warmth. At last, Molly's eyelids flickered, opened and wandered hazily, like those of a new born baby. Then the light came into them as they focussed on me, her lips parted and her eyebrows raised. She knew me, but she couldn't place me. Assuming they were all intact, her higher brain functions were slowly settling into their accustomed places. The whole process reminded me of a spring thaw. After some seconds of staring and placing my features, she spoke in a thick, slurred voice. "I know you," she said.

"So you do," I replied. "Remember my name?"

"Of course." She frowned, recalling. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. Black, two sugars."

I grinned. "You're not brain damaged then?"

She paused to consider and then wrinkled her nose. "Nope, don't think so."

"And no special abilities?"

Again a pause. "No, sorry."

"Ah well," I told her kindly, "You can't have everything."

She smiled, and then became serious. "It was Greenwood. That's all I remember."

"We've got him."

"That's good."

She lay back and closed her eyes woozily for a second. "Your morgue saved your life," I mused. "Or at least, helped to save your life as you know it. At any rate, the cold bought your brain time for your central nervous system to recover from the sedative overdose."

"Is John here?" Molly's voice was getting clearer by the minute now: The recovery of her circulatory system's functions must have awakened her vital organs, allowing an acceleration of the removal of the drugs from her system.

"Yes, I think he's still in the corridor." Just then a wicked thought struck me. "Molly, how are you feeling now?"

"Weak…"

"But perfectly sentient?" She chuckled and nodded. "Can you sit up?" She did so. "In that case, would you do something for me? It's just ages ago John brandished a corpse at me as a practical joke and almost gave me a heart attack. And I think it's payback time…"

Having found Molly a bag to lie in, I went out the morgue. John was waiting for me. I thought of Kremer's Blitz Fantasy Adagio, and felt the crocodile tears well up. I bent my head and clenched my jaw and hands as I came out. John put a hand on my shoulder in sympathy. I nodded in acknowledgement, and gestured for him to go in. He did so, approaching the bag slowly and reverently. Respect for the dead has its advantages in terms of practical trickery at least... Just as he was about to look into the bag, Molly sprang into a sitting position. "Cold in here, isn't it?" she declared cheerfully. John has a much higher scream than I would have imagined.

_[J.W. You hypocrite, Sherlock. You say I embellish MY blog posts?]_

_[S.H. Shh, John. You're interrupting the story.]_

_[J.W. I resent that comment about struggling with endings.]_

_[S.H. Well, you do.]_

_[J.W. Right, well I'M finishing this one.]_

_[S.H. Have it your way.]_

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Molly spent a night in the hospital for observation. Lestrade, once he had heard of her miraculous resurrection, made a monumental effort to keep the reporters out; but once reporters get hold of a story like this they sink their teeth in and hold on until they get what they want. Molly didn't mind too much – in fact she could probably do with the confidence boost. After all, the 'miracle' headline would get everyone's attention, but it wasn't as if the miracle in question was _really_ inexplicable. Given that fact, people's interest in her would die down soon enough. Sherlock, however, beat a hasty retreat. He can't stand being involved in massive news stories, _especially _not sensational ones like this.

It was about a week before we visited Bart's again. Sherlock needed a body to punch the teeth out of, to see what sorts of marks were left on the knuckles of the assailant. I wouldn't say that either of us are especially sentimental, but I at least got an unusual pleasure from greeting Molly, as she stood smiling in the morgue that helped to save her.

_[How was that?]_

_[Honest opinion?]_

_[...Probably not?]_

_[OK. I loved it.]_

_[Fine.]_


	53. Hoist with your Own Petard

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

I thought the one area in which I was superior to Sherlock was practical trickery, especially medicine-based ones, being a doctor. Molly's resurrection alone proved that I was wrong about that. However, he not only demonstrates excellent initiative when it comes to tricks, but his ability to improvise is astonishing as well, as I found out on the morning of April 1st. I had planned my prank several days in advance, so everything was in place when Sherlock got up.

I pretended to be asleep on the sofa, a hot water bottle tucked under my jumper. Luckily Sherlock didn't have a case on at the time, and so wandered aimlessly into the living room, looking for something to fix his attention on. The unusual sight of me with a hot water bottle naturally became that something. "You alright?" he asked. I mumbled something and stood up.

"Woah!" I commented, and pitched forward. Sherlock caught me and sat me down, pushing my head forward and downwards to get the blood to it. "Thanks," I told him, "Probably needed that."

"Would you like some water?" he asked, with unusual consideration.

"No, I'll be ok," I told him. "I just feel leaden."

"Well go back to bed then."

"No…no I'll be alright." I heaved myself up. "Sardines. I need sardines _now_ – have we got sardines?"

"Er…no," said Sherlock, looking at me strangely. "John, what's going on?"

"What? Oh, nothing, nothing…I just need…I need…" I pretended to retch and lurched to the bathroom, clutching my stomach. I made vomiting noises and flushed the toilet, before re-emerging.

"You look awful – you should go to the doctor," said Sherlock. I gave him a pointed look.

"No…I feel. I feel…" I contrived sudden, horrified realisation.

"What?"

"Get me a glass beaker, Sherlock." He fetched one.

"What are you going to do?"

"I think I know what's wrong with me. Vomiting in the morning, tiredness, faintness, stomach cramps...it all points to one thing, albeit extremely unlikely."

"What are you saying?" Sherlock's eyebrows were drawn and his nose wrinkled in confusion.

"If you wouldn't mind," I motioned him to turn his back as I collected a urine sample in the beaker. "Ok, I'm finished – you can turn back around." I put the glass on the table.

Sherlock gazed at it for a minute, and then at me. "NO." I nodded. His eyes went like saucers. "But…that's biologically impossible! You're _male_."

"Well it _has _happened to males before. On very rare occasions."

"And you think you're…?"  
"I just want to make absolutely sure I'm _not_."

I left Sherlock standing speechless as I went to my room. I had been struggling desperately to keep a straight face and as I closed the door I allowed myself a silent fit of laughter. Sherlock has just the right amount of medical knowledge to appreciate not only the biological impossibility of my 'problem', but also the practical impossibility, given the fact that Sarah and I are currently on a strictly platonic relationship status, and I have not had any other dates since I moved to 221B. But he also has a perfect balance of medical naivety to actually fall for the 'It has happened before on very rare occasions' spin.

Once I had dug out the necessary packet from my room I returned to where Sherlock was waiting patiently with the beaker of urine. I may be making this up in retrospect, but there did seem to be just a tiny twinkle in his eyes, masked by well-acted concern and curiosity. "What've you got?" he enquired.

"Pregnancy test," I told him, tearing open the packet. "Just to be sure."

"I cannot _believe _you're about to test yourself in all seriousness." I raised my eyebrows at him, and dipped the end of the stick into the urine. The dark crept up the stick, and in a matter of seconds two lines appeared. I feigned incredulity, placing a hand on my stomach, and sat down in the union jack chair with a thud. Sherlock's mouth dropped open. "John?" He whispered.

It was then that I simply couldn't keep the mask in place and burst into laughter, jumping up from the chair. Sherlock started to grin too. "Trick test!" he said. I nodded. "Ha – you almost had me!"

"Oi – I _did _have you at one point."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No you didn't." Sherlock was infuriatingly unwavering.

"Yeah I did! You should have seen your face!"

And at that, Sherlock picked up the beaker and drained it. That put a stop to my merriment quickly enough. I stared at him in silence for some seconds, appalled. "You…but…what?" I managed finally, pointing at the beaker.

And now Sherlock burst into his silent, inward version of laughter. "Gotcha," he said, grinning triumphantly.

"Huh?"

"Happens on very rare occasions? _Please_. I may not know all the ins and outs of medicine like you do, and I may not have seen many pregnancy tests in my time, but I _know_ that _you _are definitely not pregnant. A sudden onslaught of symptoms all in one morning? Had to be a trick test – one that goes positive every time and in any liquid. So while you were foraging in your room for your test I swapped the urine for watered down apple juice microwaved up to temperature, in an identical beaker."

I tried to think of an adequately defiant come-back, but failed. What came out instead was a rather pathetic "You…you…argh, why do you always have to win?"

"Well, if you dismiss everything impossible then at some point you're left with just one logical solution. I knew what you wanted me to think, which helped, and I knew the date. After putting those two together it wasn't hard to guess what you were about to do, so I just devised fitting revenge." He frowned. "I think the correct expression is 'hoist with your own petard'". He gave a smug smile.

"Well," I admitted reluctantly, "I'm…impressed."

"Thank you. Yours was not bad either. A bit obvious maybe, but not bad at all."

"Breakfast?"

"You know, I think I will today. Just cereal."

I noticed at once that Mrs Hudson had at some point that morning switched the cereal in the plastic storage bin for dry cat food. But Sherlock, being naïve both to breakfast _and _cats, failed to notice this, and I may have somehow forgotten to mention it to him. He did comment on the taste being unexpectedly savoury. I told him about it later that evening – he maintained that he'd actually quite liked the taste, but refused to eat any more to prove it. So the score now stands as follows:

Sherlock: 2 (Molly prank and pregnancy test backfirage)

John: 1 (Stanley the corpse)

Mrs Hudson: 1 (the cat food)

Our combined efforts may yet put him in his place.


	54. A Little Domestic

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

One of the dangers of blogging habitually like I do, is that it can become very impulsive and compulsive. I find it a brilliant way to vent frustrations or voice opinions that I would otherwise not have the courage or inclination to express. This is a double-edged sword: It's good to get such things out of one's system, but, especially for me, I have to remember that those on the receiving end are not only real people, but that they are very often people I know. And at least one of them is somebody I have to share living space with.

I'd had a really very busy day at the GP, and when I'm away at work all day it often puts Sherlock into a bad mood, especially when he doesn't have a case to pursue himself. Anyway, I came in and said a quick hello, but my mind was so incredibly full of work matters that I must have come across as pretty terse. I'd brought home a load of papers (anonymous forms so it was alright in that instance) and sat down at my desk to work my way through them.

There seemed to be a lot of banging and clanging and people traipsing up and down and round the flat. Every time I tried to focus a cupboard would close with a thump, or a door would be flung open and the shadow of my dear flatmate would fall across the page, distracting me. I bore it all as long as I could, but eventually snapped. "SHERLOCK! Look, just stop already. Go and try out some origami or something." He made no reply – just glared sullenly.

Minutes later I was hit in the back of the head by the surprisingly sharp nose of a paper aeroplane. I jumped up, rubbing the place where the point had hit, snatched the plane off him, opened the window and threw it out. "You _said _try some origami!" he protested.

"Yeah – my mistake then. Look, go and pester Mrs Hudson or someone. I'm busy with work."

"Stupid work."

"Shut up."

"Stupid work."

"Sherlock!"

"Well it is."

"I like it."

"So you don't like working with me?"

"No – for God's sake!" I paused and controlled my rising temper. "Look, I'm not saying that, but – how can I put this nicely – you can be a real pain sometimes."

"Feelings wholly reciprocated," he retorted, flushing.

I tried to continue, as Sherlock stood watching over my shoulder as I wrote every word. I could hear his breathing somewhere above my head. It was really off-putting. I started to realise he was doing this on purpose – baiting me – in the same way a little kid tests it's parents' boundaries. The best way to deal with that, I reasoned, would be to simply ignore it. I must take care not to let him know that he's getting to me, I thought. But in my distracted state of mind I found I had filled in the medication type in the symptoms section, and I glanced around for the Tipp-Ex. It was nowhere to be seen. "That's odd."

"What's odd?"

"I thought it was…" I broke off, seeing it on Sherlock's desk. We both sprang forward at the same instant, but he got there first. "Sherlock," I said, trying to remain calm, "Please pass me the Tipp-Ex, so I can sort out my form."

"Am I really a real pain?"

"Yes – give me it!"

He snatched it away and frowned at me in puzzlement. "Then why do you put up with me?"

"I haven't a clue, _give me that._" Sherlock pouted for a moment, then he darted to the window, opened it and flung the bottle out. Then, before I could stop him, my GP forms had followed. I stared at him in speechless dismay. He stared back provocatively.

"You know what?" I burst out finally, at the end of my tether, "I'm putting an ad on Gumtree. I can't stand living with you. You're up all hours, you never take care of yourself properly, you're terse, you're mocking, you destroy my possessions, you hinder my work, you thoughtlessly endanger people, you used to get in between Sarah and me…_How _I lasted this long with you I have _no _idea!" As I spoke I wrenched my coat on and disappeared out, slamming the door with such force that I heard the windows rattle.

I marched into the street to salvage whatever forms I could. The wind had carried them up and down Baker Street, and as it had been raining the night before most of them now lay forlornly in muddy puddles, the ink smudged beyond repair. Having one's work destroyed is one thing, but having it destroyed when you're already exhausted can break a person. Even a strong one. I gathered up the forms and, in frustration, scrunched them up and tossed them into the gutter. Then on second thoughts I picked them up again and stuffed them into my pockets in case someone decided to give me a fine for littering.

Sherlock wasn't in the flat when I got back. I had no idea where he was. _ Fine_, I thought to myself. _What do I care what he does? Good riddance, I say._ And with that I opened my laptop and started blogging. I forget exactly what I put, but suffice to say that the anger and resentment had not died down one little bit. In fact, I doubt I was really fully aware of what I was writing even at the time – I just knew it was about Sherlock and all his faults and how he spoiled everything. I rarely lose my cool, but it was the twin feelings of frustration at him, and the loss of my work that did it.

I clicked 'post' without proof-reading, switched off and shut the laptop without even looking, and called Sarah.

"Look, I'm really sorry, but those forms you needed…Sherlock threw them out the window."

"Oh…" Sarah sounded vaguely amused, a little disappointed and a bit puzzled.

"Honestly, he did. It was my fault really…"

"Now I believed you at first, but that I _don't_ believe," she said, and I could hear the smile form in her voice. In spite of myself, I smiled a little too in response.

"Everything I do is annoying to him. I mean I can understand his attitude a bit, but why he should drag everyone else down with him…"

"Ah, but you love him really." I snorted.

"I told him I was going to search for a new flat mate."

"Really?"

"He's never going to learn."

"Well, from what I've seen of him he means well."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Don't put the ad up yet, ok? Give it a few days."

I thought about this. "Ok. Thanks, Sarah."

"You're welcome. See you tomorrow."

"See you. Bye."

I found that the anger had gone when I finished the phone call. There was a quiet "Coo-coo" at the door, and Mrs Hudson came in.

"You two – always getting across each other." She gave a light laugh.

"Well he _did _throw half my work out the window."

"I know – he was telling me!"

"He was?"

"He was."

"He's hell-bent on getting me sacked, it seems," I said, with a dry chuckle.

"Sounds to me as though he's being just a little too possessive. When you're at work you're not there at his every beck and call."

"Well I'm not his servant!"

"No, but you _are_ his friend and he's still only learning..."

"True. On both counts."

"He, um, wanted me to ask you if you were serious about leaving the flat."

I paused to rationally consider this for a moment. Everything I had been angry about was true, but he'd also got me my alpha smart for Christmas – and that wasn't case-related. In fact it was feeding a habit of mine, of which he didn't in all honesty approve. And he had made the non-booming fireworks on bonfire night by way of an apology for ruining my first date with Sarah. And he had given me tiny, non-verbal clues during cases so that I might reach the same deductions as him, and be the one to show off to Lestrade for a change. Thinking objectively there's pretty much a fifty-fifty mix of good and bad. But the thing is, the bad things are seldom intentional, and the good things usually are.

"No. I'll leave it, I think," I said.

Later that evening, Sherlock and I were relaxing, back on good terms again. Sherlock picked up his laptop – he had been on and off the computer all day – when I suddenly remembered about my horrible blog post. If he hadn't seen it then that must surely be lucky chance alone. And it would be too awful if he logged onto my blog now that were had reconciled, only to find a ranting defamation of his habits and every aspect of his character, work and logic! Things _do _hit home with Sherlock, even if the reaction is suppressed or delayed. I snatched the laptop from him and, ignoring his protests, signed in to my blog. There was no post there. I frowned and refreshed the page. "Did you remove my blog post?" I asked him.

"Hmm? No. Why, what did it say?"

"Oh, just stuff…" I murmured vaguely, fetching my own laptop, turning it on and clicking the browser.

_ERROR – wireless network down. _I repaired the network, then waited tensely. No blog post came up. Somehow the network error had erased all trace of my post when I'd tried to upload it.

I breathed a _huge _sign of relief.

"What is it?" Sherlock enquired.

"Nothing important. Just that sometimes losing a load of work isn't such a bad thing after all."

"Exactly," agreed Sherlock, and with a twinkle in his eye he picked up his violin.


	55. Caring for Your Consulting Detective

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

How to Care for Your Consulting Detective

(Format taken from 'The Practical Puppy-Keeping Guide')

_Feeding_

This will in all probability prove to be the most challenging aspect of keeping your consulting detective alive. They are prone to refusing food for days on end, which can often lead to loss of consciousness at inopportune times (e.g. climbing a building, running from the police, leaning over a trap door). The second-most important thing you can do to prevent such occurrences is to note down everything you see your consulting detective eat, as well as how much is left over. You will then have a good idea of how long your consulting detective can go before passing out, and be able to integrate your plans accordingly. The most important thing to remember is this: Whilst your consulting detective may not eat while it's on a case, it will drink fluids. So be creative with said fluids. Add cream to the coffee instead of milk, and if your consulting detective is opting for cocoa you can even do things like crumble one of those baby rusks into it for longer energy release. Fruit juices can have syrup added to them for extra energy, and if you are in control of the shopping, get the cloudiest, bittiest fruit juice you can find, as it will have the most substance to it. Cuppa soups also come in handy, but these are more likely to be rejected when under pressure than conventional drinks. Encourage the consumption of milk – but treat with caution, as too much will lead to eczema flare-ups.

_Bedding_

Your consulting detective will probably be quite happy on a simple sofa, but it may be difficult to get it to take enough rest. Once again, this can lead to collapsing, or – infinitely worse – poor judgement and planning. It is therefore wise to have a bed to which your consulting detective can retire. Beds are also invaluable for those occasions where the consulting detective has been smashed over the head – e.g. by a mad Arab wanting diamonds. It will alarm you the first time your consulting detective is knocked out, but you will soon get used to it. Besides, they are tough creatures, and are unlikely to suffer from (much) permenant damage. In fact, it may be beneficial to allow your consulting detective to get bashed over the head every once in a while: Not only will it learn better judgement for next time; it will also get a few precious hours of much-needed rest, and you will get a few worry-free hours, knowing exactly its state of health and its whereabouts. However, should you still feel uncomfortable with taking this option, there are other ways to get your consulting detective to go to sleep. Particularly during cases, your consulting detective will be prone to moving around in its sleep and waking itself up repeatedly. This can be prevented by swaddling it in the duvet, although this can take a bit of practice and is not generally appreciated. If this proves impossible a sleeping bag with a drawstring may prove an effective alternative. Your consulting detective may also relax under the influence of some soothing classical music.

_Grooming_

Consulting detectives tend to be clean, particular creatures in terms of personal hygiene and appearance, but like magpies, they tend to leave a great deal of clutter behind them wherever they go. There is no easy solution to this problem if you wish to remain on good terms with your consulting detective. The best way to get it to clear up after itself tends to be to leave enough of your own mess around that it becomes a distraction to it, and then offer to clear your stuff away if it does the same with its own. It is also a good idea to ensure your consulting detective is not hoarding any of your possessions, as need and subsequent forgetfulness combined may result in a collection accumulating. Ensure all wounds and eczema patches are appropriately dressed and treated.

_House Training_

Your consulting detective should not require house training per se. However, during periods of extreme concentration it is wise to be vigilant for certain unconscious mannerisms and behaviours. Your consulting detective may well become so focussed on its work that it does not spontaneously notice warning sensations itself and respond in good time. Make sure your consulting detective eats adequate fibre, especially after a case has reached its conclusion.

_Worming_

Your consulting detective should not generally get worms or any other parasites, and as such does not need to be regularly wormed. However, just like humans, your consulting detective may become ill as the result of a viral, fungal or bacterial infection. In the case of the latter two, antibiotics should clear up the problem and your consulting detective, once prompted, should have no objection to complying with the treatment. The viral illness is more difficult as it requires prolonged rest to prevent the development of pneumonia and other serious conditions. In these cases a sedative may be useful, and on rare occasions your consulting detective may allow you to run errands and carry out interviews in its place.

_Training and Socialising_

This is a tricky one. Your consulting detective is likely to balk if you try and actively mould its personality. It is wise to remember that you cannot change a person, and nor is it your responsibility to do so. After all, how would you feel if somebody set out to change YOUR personality and way of thinking? Despite its vices, your consulting detective has many positive traits: Determination, resourcefulness, courage, loyalty, exceptional reasoning and observation, and strong morals. These far outweigh its social deficits and questionable methods. However you must also remember that you are your consulting detective's primary influence when it comes to attitudes and principles. Being a creature that is easily impressed by its surroundings, it is likely to learn by example.

_Travelling_

When it comes to travel consulting detectives can be picky creatures. They tend to fare badly in dirty conditions with large crowds, and they avoid such situations where possible, as far as their work allows them. In many instances it will be possible for you to claim travel expenses either from the clients or from the government, and since your consulting detective will perform at its best when it is not distracted, it is as well to get good quality transport and accommodation. Travel first class in trains and aeroplanes, and book taxis when travelling by road. When it comes to hotels consulting detectives are much less fussed. Internet connection is always a bonus, but since your consulting detective will probably not eat during its work, a bed and breakfast will suffice, rather than a hotel. When it comes to room arrangements you, for once, have full choice. Your consulting detective is honestly not bothered if you have a single or double room, or a single or double bed, for that matter. In its mind, bedrooms are made solely for sleeping and thinking in. Besides it will probably spend most of the night up and thinking anyway.

_Play_

This is not something that comes naturally to consulting detectives, and you will probably need to introduce the concept gradually. They are NOT team-sport animals, and will probably fare badly in games such as rugby or even tennis. Jogging and knitting will be seen as pointless wastes of energy, and swimming (at least in chlorinated water) will probably exacerbate eczema. On the other hand, martial arts, boxing and fencing will be enjoyed, as they may prove useful in the consulting detective's work. Your consulting detective can also be cajoled into going on walks, as these provide opportunities both for learning routes and landmarks, and also for observation, deduction and instructive conversation. Gaming will be welcomed, depending on the game, but understand that this can easily spiral into a severe obsession, especially in the absence of work. Your consulting detective will also amuse itself by practicing the violin, performing chemistry experiments and doing freelance research. If it seems content, it is generally wise to leave it to its own devices.

_Conclusions_

Your consulting detective will prove an interesting challenge, both from a physical and intellectual perspective. Many people have been put off them for their stubborn, reclusive and often arrogant personalities. However, they are far from unmanageable and, given the right attention and influences, can prove faithful, loyal and endlessly interesting companions and work-mates.


	56. SH & JW: Gateway Responses to puppy post

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/_No Incoming Viruses Detected_/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: puppy keeping post

CC:

BCC:

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Don't, John. I can't explain but just honestly don't – please.

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_John's Email Response_

Why the emails – why not talk face to face? I'm sorry for embarrassing you, but you have to admit you can be a difficult patient. Shall I delete the blog post?

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_Sherlock's Second Email Response_

It's not that. Don't delete.

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_John's Second Email Response_

Sorry to keep prodding, but what's wrong then? I mean, if you've got a problem with the blog post why don't I just delete it?

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_Four Days Later_

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_Sherlock's Third Email response_

Just had to tie up a case. And no, it's nothing wrong with the blog – not as such. You just caught me off-guard talking about pets. Yes, I did have one And there's a _very_ good reason why I'll never have one again.

P.S. Can you do something about all those 're's? They're getting on my nerves.

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_John's Third Email Response_

You're just as capable of changing the subject line yourself. But there, it's done. Anyway. Sorry in advance if this is a tricky topic, but will you elaborate on your last email? I hope so.

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	57. Sherlock's Fifth Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Soul

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Alright then, I'll tell you, but it's rather involved. I've lived in lots of different places. Twenty years in the family home, and then two years at university. And then two years with Mycroft that I'd rather never think of again, lying low and pretending to our mother that I was still doing my degree whilst I was actually devouring case papers from the university library. And then I moved out of there and spent two more years lodging in various rooms and getting evicted. I can't blame them, I know: chemistry isn't the most social science, and nobody I've met seems to like late night violin music. Personally I find it rather mellow and relaxing, but apparently I'm a minority group in that respect. I think in retrospect it was probably the constant talk about forensics and the blood distribution patterns associated with different murder methods that really put the house-owners off having me. The annoying thing is though, that as a frequently-moving lodger you earn a reputation, and if that reputation is not good it makes it increasingly difficult to find people who are willing to take you. Especially if you have to provide references.

The upshot is that by 2002 I was rather stuck for accommodation. I had a bit of money from working in a second hand bookshop (a job which pushed me into mental information overload every day due to the highly individualised state of each book), and from working as a lab demonstrator at Bart's. Of course Mycroft had to butt in again then. It turned out that one person in the Scottish government who was in contact with him regularly owned an unfurnished flat in London, which they used for business, and they were willing to rent it out to me for a reduced price, since they owed Mycroft a favour. I went to see the flat. It had a tiny kitchen, a bathroom with a shower and no bath, and one room that doubled as a bedroom and living room. Most people would have found it far too small and cramped, but it was perfect for me: When I do eat I usually eat out, or just eat the food from the tin (it's already been cooked, after all), and you know I don't like baths anyway. Besides, the fact that it was unfurnished was good – most furniture that isn't mine is surplus to requirements anyway. Really all I needed to purchase was an air mattress, a large table, a chair and some bedclothes. During the day I used the table as a table, and at night it was a bed.

As you can imagine, Mycroft wasn't too happy about me living alone, sleeping on a table and eating food cold from tins. Not to mention my odd hours, my chain smoking and my 'unhealthy' pre-occupation with crime. Besides, by not heating the place and by smoking inside I was breaking both legal and contract stipulations (But Mycroft did say before that the friend had written the contract only as a formality, so how he thought he could use it to threaten me was beyond me, and it was him who read over that no-smoking policy anyway before it became law), and given my past history of epilepsy he

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_Sent today at 11:45:18 GMT (BST)_


	58. Sherlock's Email Apology

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Sorry

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Hello John,

I know it's difficult to believe, but I really _am _sorry for putting you through that. In my defence I did say I was sorry immediately afterwards. And there weren't really any alternatives. Anyway it was just a bit of PVA, cooking oil, blusher and atropine. And even that wouldn't have been necessary if you weren't such a good doctor or such a terrible actor. But even so, I shouldn't have scared you like that. Can't you at least start talking to me again? I'll tell you more about Soul if you do.

Sherlock.

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_Sent today at 00:12:47 GMT (BST)_


	59. John's Reply to Sherlock's Email Apology

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From: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

To: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

Subject: re: Sorry

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Hmmm. It was a bit more than that. On the other hand, you _have _apologised twice now. Just don't ever, ever do anything like that again. People are not your pawns. Especially not people who care about you.

I'd like to hear about Soul – whatever that is – if you'll tell me.

John.

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_Sent today at 00:32:05 GMT (BST)_


	60. Sherlock's Sixth Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Introduction to Soul

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didn't feel that me living alone, especially with a lifestyle like that, was a good idea. Obviously I can't stop him having his own opinions but he should stop forcing them down everyone's throats. I am a responsible adult.

Unfortunately Mycroft held the strings of power in that instance and I received a letter from his government friend saying that if I was to continue my tenancy I was hereby required to employ a flatmate. I have no doubt Mycroft put her up to is, using his infinite charm and exceptional skills of persuasion.

Obviously his first reaction was to volunteer to live with me, which worked for a grand total of three nights. He wanted to bring furniture in, including a proper bed and armchair. I refused. He coped for the first two nights and then threatened to give away my location to our mother, as well as my current lack of conventional occupation. At that – well – let's just say I saw him politely out of the flat.

During my time in that place I would go to the bar every night in order to watch the news, although bars are also a very good place for building up contacts. They're one of the few places where you can seek out people without being threatened with a restraining order for doing so, and on top of that regular bar-goers generally stick to the same bar, so if you learn their routine it becomes easy to find them when you need them. Also, should I get into a brawl by mistake it's an excellent opportunity to keep my hand in with martial arts or boxing.

Anyway, over that week there seemed to be far more government cock-ups than usual, if that's possible, and government cock-ups mean a distracted brother. They're not Mycroft's cock-ups of course; he just isn't pulling the strings of other people quite as much when they go wrong. My theory was confirmed when he texted me and told me he would be over the next day with a potential flatmate. I did my best to avoid him, but to no avail; he simply waited until I got back in the small hours. He and the flatmate.

I found him sitting on a bench in the lamplight near the bottom of the block of flats, the flatmate sitting close by. Said flatmate was becoming impatient, nudging him often and trying to persuade him to take a walk around the area. Oh, and said flatmate was a dog. Even I hadn't been prepared for that one.

The dog was a female. She had the head and legs of a border collie, and the ears, chest and tail of an Alsatian. She was mostly black and white in colour, with a strange heart-shaped pattern of white fur over her right front shoulder joint. Her ears, feet and the tip of her tail were brown. Her eyes were bright and black and her tongue lolled out. "Who's this?" I demanded, pointing and forgetting for a moment that I was almost speaking to my brother like a civilised human being.

"Your new flatmate," Mycroft told me, as dignified as ever, despite the bizarre conversation. "Her name is Soul."

I cleared my throat, trying to think of a suitable response. Well, if she was to be a potential flatmate, I'd better do the thing properly. "And…what in your opinion qualifies Soul for the position of my flatmate?" I enquired.

"She's two years old, good company, unobtrusive, needs routine and has been through traingin as a seizure dog."

"I don't have seizures." Mycroft screwed up his eyes momentarily in patient tolerance. "I f it makes any difference at all, she failed her training. Her responses were not consistent enough. However, she seems to be able to detect the onset of a grand mal seizure at least half an hour before it begins and alert the sufferer. She is, if you like, an amateur."

"Why would any of this matter to me?"

"Because it matters to the people who care about you," Mycroft informed me, fixing me with a determined gaze.

"Then I'll make sure nobody cares about me from now on."

"You have no control over who cares about you, and you never will."

Mycroft folded his arms and looked down his nose at me. I badly wanted to use a straight left on him. I controlled myself, reminding myself that even if I couldn't control who cared about me, I didn't have to care for them back.

"And her weaknesses?" I got out after a few seconds.

"Chasing cars and digging up rubbish," he replied. "The owner of the flat told me that as far as she is concerned, Soul meets the criteria for a suitable flatmate. With a track-record like yours you would be wise to accept her."

"I know nothing about keeping dogs."

"That won't be a problem. Soul's former trainer can help you. She'll be here tomorrow at eight in the morning to help Soul move in and to show you the basics."

"In other words you assumed I would agree to this."

"If you want to keep the flat you have no choice."

I stared down at Soul, trying to distract myself from the pleasing images of Mycroft roasting on a spit over the cheerfully crackling fire in my old student accommodation.

"Fine." I said eventually, realising that once again Mycroft had check-mated me. "I'll take Soul. Have this friend bring her back tomorrow, with the equipment. But you – you stay away from me, Mycroft, or I promise you, I will disappear forever." I was surprised to find myself vibrating. Mycroft looked at me hard, and I stared back levelly. His eyes flicked between each of mine, weighing up my ability to carry out this threat. Then slowly he turned without a word and walked away, Soul trotting meekly beside him.

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_Sent today at 21:08:11 GMT (BST)_


	61. Untitled Post

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

A majory terrorist is dead. Sometimes…sometimes it's easy to express your thoughts and emotions about a person's death and sometimes it's not, and there doesn't seem to be a pattern to it. This time it's really not. It's one of the very few times I've leant on Sherlock for that kind of support, and to my surprise he didn't disappoint – possibly because the leaning was mutual.

But this is very, very different, and even if Sherlock was willing to try and understand, I wouldn't want him to enter this space with me. It's a personal one – I never met the man, but I fought against everything he stood for with my entire being. I saw the devastation that a reign of terror caused first hand, and it certainly wasn't the first one – and I know it won't be the last one. Hell…this one's not even over yet. The man is dead, but he was just a man; it's the idea that matters. And the poignancy of death is a double-edged sword. When a beautiful, kind, good person dies, it inspires hundreds of other people to take up their mantle. The resulting love, kindness and unity is staggering. But diabolical people have their little (or not so little) fan clubs too. And their deaths inspire these crawling, twisted individuals to take up the cause and ensure its immortality. This terrorist started something truly dreadful, and his death is just the beginning; now we have to deal with the resulting backlash, and when a few bad people have a little bit of power, it takes all the good people there are to fight that collective will.

I was one of the last people to find out that this terrorist had been killed. Having just finished the Easter Egg case – our most infamous one to date for an unexpected reason, and one I will certainly tell you about soon – I was hopelessly backlogged with my medical work. I knew that if I didn't rectify that quickly I would be in serious trouble. I was already on thin ice as it was. After the last disastrous time I tried to work at home, I decided it was best to stay at the GP's to get my work done. This resulted in long, long hours working non-stop at the surgery until it closed; the cleaners actually had to shoo me out a couple of times. I would then come back to the flat exhausted. Mrs Hudson, bless her, is not our housekeeper, but she's that compassionate and concerned for us that she always had something ready for me coming back, even if it was just something cold left over from her own meals. She said she couldn't bear to see me looking so pale and drawn, and I must stop copying Sherlock, and that if I didn't eat and rest I would wear myself out. So I ate in order to please her, and then fell into bed and slept, before getting up early and continuing my work. This went on for a few days, and my backlog finally began to decrease and I could relax a bit.

It was Sherlock who suggested we went for a walk. He had just finished tying up all the loose ends of a case involving a necklace strung with toes, a TV remote and a man who had been hanged from a living room lamp. Therefore he was relatively calm – there is usually a day or so of calm for him after a case before the boredom sets back in. We went to our usual walk haunt, the pond. After an hour, during which I refused to attempt to observe and deduce but listened to Sherlock prattling away about marks on a tree and comparisons of different measuring systems in terms of chemistry, we stopped off at a café for a bite to eat. Sherlock had noodles – he always does if he can. I had a fry up. We didn't talk much during the meal.

Someone behind us was complaining loudly about the way their soup sat in the bowl. I thought to myself that they probably wouldn't be particularly happy if it hovered above the bowl, where they'd have to suck it up through a straw. On another table a man had decided it would be a good idea to take their hamster into the restaurant in their hand, and hold it while they ate. The person with him, presumably his date, was calling him an f***ing w***er and extolling the virtues of animal rights. Whilst absolutely in favour of giving animals a good life I did think that she was slightly over-reacting, and was possibly just irritated that there was a rival for his attention.

Aside from all this though, there was a television blaring, and one third of the way through our meal a news report came up. I wasn't paying much attention until the headline "The president announces that the death photo will not be published due to fears that it could provoke a backlash."

My head jerked up, and I stopped chewing, staring at the screen. My brain had gone rather numb. It took a second for Sherlock to notice.

"What?" he asked. I gestured with my fork at the TV screen, which was showing a photo of the man.

"Oh, that," said Sherlock, going back to his noodles. That's been playing all day."

"No," I said, coming back with a jolt and glaring at him; he took no notice. "That man…do you _know _who he is, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up. "Him? He was a terrorist or something..."

"He masterminded the nine-eleven attacks. Does that even register with you?"

"Why should it?"

Sherlock stared levelly back with the facial expression that normally accompanies a disinterested shrug. I know he doesn't mean it in a callous way – more a very literal way – and I knew it then too, but emotion took over nonetheless. I stood up quickly and made for the restaurant door. "Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded. I gave a wordless gesture to show I couldn't explain, and made my way quickly outside. The knot in my stomach that had jumped into existence as soon as the meaning of the headline hit me had loosened somewhat, but I needed a sky to look up towards and a railing to lean against. As I gazed up I recalibrated my world. Several realisations hit me – the joy and relief that the man was no longer a threat, then grief for the people who had not survived the war to see this day, and then the black fear of what would come as a result of his killing.

I called a cab, went back to 221B on my own, logged on to the internet and read news article after news article, comment after comment. Sherlock sent me four texts in that time, but I ignored them. Not because I was cross, but because nothing seemed as important as what I was reading right then. Besides, Sherlock can sometimes bang on and on when he's riled at someone. I read the same information over and over, and each time I read it the fact became truer. I suddenly wanted to contact my old army friends, but it had been two years and I didn't feel like doing the whole catch-up-how's-the-fighting-oh-and-also-the-wife routine. Not with news of this magnitude hanging over us. So instead I commented on every news article I could see: "A relief to know he won't be scheming anymore. I fought against his ideals, and if I hadn't been discharged due to army wounds I would do it again. May good always triumph over evil."

After an hour and half or so I heard the door and Sherlock came in. He may be pretty socially inept, but if it really matters he does know when not to butt in. He sat down and waited. His mere presence sort of brought me back to the real world – brought things back into perspective. I closed the windows on my laptop and turned to face him, tongue-tied. I didn't want to have to go into a long explanation for running away.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's fine," he said.

"Did you pay?" I said.

"I did," he said.

"What do I owe you?" I said, reaching into my coat pocket.

"Zero pounds and zero pence," he said, looking at me with an angular, piercing and yet thoroughly comforting expression. I realised in that moment why he never behaves with decorum or sympathy: Decorum and sympathy in this situation are the expressions of people who haven't been to that dark place – a façade – a show that is put on for the benefit of the watchers, rather than of the recipient. As for said watchers, although they want to help they know nothing about what is needed – and they can't know until they have been there – and you naturally hope they never will be there, but in hoping that you're wishing away the very kind of support that would be invaluable to you at that moment. By _not _assuming an expression of sympathy and compassion, Sherlock was, paradoxically, showing me that he understood why I'd had to disappear, and that he cared, not because it mattered to him, but because it obviously mattered to _me_ – and _that _was whatmattered to him.

It wasn't until I was going to bed with peoples' comments going round in my head, that I started to wonder about said comments. Celebratory comments, ecstatic comments, comments of crazed triumph…it was nice that people were uniting, but was this really bringing out the best side of the human race – to gloat over the death of a person, however evil, and share viral videos, supposedly of the execution? Does it not at times and with some people seem rather like they are using justice, retribution and protection of the people as an excuse for what is in actual fact just rampant morbidity and gore fetishism? It's a tricky one and doubtless I will get a backlash with such a thought, but nonetheless I feel I must express it. But to be relieved at the death of a monster – that is to be expected, to be identified with. And the people who brought about his death, I will believe for now, were passionate about fighting not just this one terrorist, but terrorism itself, for its own sake.

And even if they weren't – even if they were like some people I knew in the army who just liked killing people and were looking for a legal excuse to do it, I know there are millions more good people in the world. All you need to do to get proof of that is look at a 'friendless sociopath' like Sherlock. Whether it's in his control or not there are many people who care a great deal for him, and even if he doesn't show it in the conventional way, there are people he cares about too. This terrorist's one lasting act, although incredibly heinous and devastating to millions (not just the families of the victims but people worldwide), is still just one act. And for that one horrific act, all those millions of good people reached out and performed countless acts of love and compassion, often going to extraordinary lengths to do so. And that is why, although my view of the world may have been somewhat jaded by my experiences, I still find it easy to believe in the basic decency of humanity, and I consider it well worth fighting for.


	62. Sherlock's 7th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Soul (cont'd)

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Soul moved into the flat the morning after my lovely chat with Mycroft. She brought with her food with a scoop, a chew, a whistle, a brush, water and food bowls, lead, bed, scoop for clearing up mess, and disposal bags. The trainer who helped Soul move in had also brought laminated instructions about feeding, walking and training commands, which I pinned on my notice board, next to some crime photographs cut from forensic research papers. The trainer turned a little pale when she saw the pictures (there was a corpse with a severed head in one, and in another there was an extremely graphic message written in blood), but I explained my self-created job to her, and although she looked dubious, she didn't ask any more questions, not surprisingly.

Soul and I took the air that morning, under the watchful eye of the trainer, and once she was satisfied we would get on alright together, the trainer left. That done, we gradually began to settle down and accommodate ourselves to life together. Soul was certainly not a difficult flatmate to live with. She was quiet in her ways, and her habits were regular. This was a blessing as it allowed me to establish a routine and thus, after initially getting used to this routine, she did not interrupt my work. She was usually content to settle for the night at around ten, and would breakfast and go out early in the morning and evening for a 'relief' walk. During the day she was allowed to come into the chemical laboratory with me since she was a service dog and they had exceptions to the regulations for them. She would lie quietly under the benches as I worked. Sometimes when we had nothing in particular to do she would become restless and frustrated, and who could blame her? Often she would jump on furniture, chew things or whine softly and incessantly, even if I knew she had just been for a relief walk.

Sometimes we would venture together into the lower portions of the city and spend all day wondering round, making connections and exploring and playing games. By games I don't mean fetch or any of those ridiculous games that are an insult to dogs' intelligence. I mean games such as sniffing out scents or listening for certain sounds. We would climb up into disused buildings, and I would hide my shoe in a hard to find place (such as dropping it down a gap between two buildings, and Soul would go off in search of it. She was fearless, had a very powerful nose, and always found a way to get to my shoe, sometimes stepping from ledge to ledge, or jumping onto soft landings such as rubbish bags. Whenever she brought the shoe back I would react with enthusiasm. Initially I was a bit formal and stiff about it, but any bit of praise was received with such enthusiasm from her that it was hard to remain dignified for long.

I still remember the first time she came back, dropped the shoe and barrelled into me, barking excitedly. I fell over in surprise, and in an instant, Soul had pinned me to the floor and was covering my face with wet licks. It is the most upfront, honest, uninhibited, innocent affection anyone has ever displayed towards me, and it took me completely by pleasurable surprise. In an instant I struggled into a sitting position and flung my arms around Soul's neck, burying

I was never really aware of the transition from service dog to assistant detective. I think it really began when I started testing Soul's ability to understand language. Why she failed her training I can only speculate, but I think it may be because the people training her were using methods that assumed there was no common communication ground between humans and dogs. This is simply not true. Especially with Soul, who, as I have already mentioned, absolutely lived to make people she cared about happy. It was her greatest strength and the key to communicating with her. She never needed any other reward. I always talked to her like an equal who's first languages, primarily, were emotion, vision, sound and scent. I quickly discovered that she struggled with full length sentences, but did very, very well on short, repetitive, imperative sentences centred around one particular word. For example "Come with me" or "Don't touch that". Soul being the only person I lived with and spent my time with, I soon began to talk almost entirely in this way. In fact, that's something I've not quite got out of the habit of, isn't it? 'Pass me my phone', 'Careful!', 'Might need some food'…Ring any bells? She responded well to hand signals as well, and changes in emotion, so I exaggerated all of these, if you can believe it.

The first command Soul reliably learnt was 'Copy me', and it was this that made me realise she could potentially be very helpful in cases. If there was a way to ensure she moved silently and reliably at a moment's notice, then I knew it was safe to take her with me. This was that way – and she was ready.

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_Sent today at 03:12:17 GMT (BST)_


	63. Sherlock's 8th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: More Soul

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Soul and I worked through many cases together, but by far the most memorable was the first one that we completed as a partnership. Obviously she couldn't help with every case – it was in the hour of action that I turned to her for assistance, and not every case I complete has an hour of action, as you well know. We had been living together for about three months and had gotten into a good routine. Soul had learned several more commands by then: "Get help", "Run away", "Listen", "Guard" and "Hold on" (at which she would grab a person's sleeve and hold on until told to let go).

Unfortunately around this time we entered an extremely barren phase. When you first moved in I didn't have quite as much work as we do now, but I did have an established reputation, as you must have realised from Lestrade's words. Back then it was a different story. Cases were few and far between and often of a degrading nature. "Please can you find my stolen car?" Or "Is my husband cheating on me?" Some of them weren't even detective cases at all – one young woman came bursting into our room demanding that I stop her husband from shouting at the dog next door. Henceforth I determined that however sparse work may be, I would be selective and not take petty or irrelevant cases.

Of course that led to many, many free hours, money troubles and lots of walks with Soul down to the disreputable areas of the town. Then, one day, the monotony was broken by a phone call from Mr Robert Powell. I remember that phone call clearly. The weather had been unusually oppressive for May, with many scattered, thin showers and the occasional torrential downpour. I had just finished an investigation into organic sulphur compounds, and Soul was lying listlessly in her bed (I should point out here that soon after she moved in she began sleeping on my bed at night and using her own bed only in the day). When the phone rang we both leapt up, eager for anything to break the quiet, endless stillness that came from a lack of cases.

The voice on the end of the phone was a bit hesitant, soft, with an upper-class accent and tone. Probably not a police officer then, or there wouldn't be that air of hesitation, and certainly not any member of authority that I had had dealings with in London.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, can I help you?"

"Um…well, I hope so. The police are stumped, but one of them had heard of you. That's how I got your number." I was gratified that some member of the official force had the grace to refer the case to me when they were at a loss.

"So you'd like to employ me as a consulting detective?"

"Um…yeah. I think it's best if we talk in person. There are things you need to see. And – and hear."

"What sort of things?"

"Artefacts."

"How soon can you get here?"

"Er, well…"

"There was the sound of a swivel chair swivelling, and then of a computer keyboard clacking.

"The next train leaves at half twelve…so that should get me in at about three. And if I get a cab to your address that would put me at about…half three?"

"With a fair wind. Yes, excellent. The address is 1 Montague Street. I'll see you at around half past three then." I hung up and turned to Soul, "Let's hope it's a big one," I told her.

The time went even slower knowing that something interesting was happening at three. I realised soon after one that I would have to do something to get rid of the rotten egg smell left over from the sulphur experiment, and that kept me busy until two. Finally, at three twenty-five the buzzer went, and my guest ventured cautiously into the living room.

"Take a seat, Mr Powell," I said, indicating the windowsill. "Sorry about the lack of furniture."

He blinked, looking down at his clothes. "But how? I didn't…"

"Didn't tell me your name on the phone? Oh, it was simple really. I just dialled 1471 and then looked through the phone book until I had the number. It was under the name Powell." I heaved myself onto the table and sat cross-legged, studying him.

"Ah, I thought it was something to do with my clothes. Either that or a trick. But anyone could learn to do it."

"With a good ten years of practice, maybe," I replied, a bit stung at his words. "You'd have a head start though, having a degree in medicine. Looking for small details and clustering them into a diagnosis is very similar to detection in many ways." He was going to ask me how I deduced this, but I held my hand up, and then put my fingertips together, relishing his incredulous and slightly spooked expression.

"I think you'll like my problem," he said at last. "I think it will involve backwards reasoning like that."

"Spit it out then," I said, turning on my Dictaphone. Robert Powell cleared his throat rather nervously.

"Well, you know my name and you know what my career would be in, if I worked, that is. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am the heir to Redheath Manor, on the outskirts of Redheath village. Do you know the area?"

"Vaguely," I replied, googling it on my laptop and motioning him to continue, without looking up. He seemed disconcerted by my abstracted manner, but continued hesitantly. "Um, alright. Well, the manor's been passed down from generation to generation to each heir or heiress, on their twenty-fifth birthday. The heir or heiress is the oldest of that direct line, needless to say. I turned twenty-five a fortnight ago, and there are very specific twenty-fifth birthday traditions that are passed down to each heir and heiress. I wouldn't dwell on these details normally, but I really think they might be important in the story."

"Please, anything that might help me understand. No opinions, just the facts."

"Ok, I can do my best. I had my friend round – also called Robert. Robert Fielding. Anyway…"

"What is this friend like?"

"Tall, black hair, glasses. Has a degree in history."

"That's all I need for now. Go on."

"He was over for the party. Anyway, on the night of the party it was extremely stormy, but since we were inside it didn't really bother us. In fact it sort of added to the atmosphere. Now, there's this…song…which is always played at the twenty-fifth birthday of the heir or heiress of the manor. I know this all sounds very weird…"

"Weird is good, go on."

"It's been passed down along with the manor, I don't know for how long. It's quite absurd really, but it's tradition, so it was played. It's always played as a prelude to the birthday meal. Anyway, I was feeling quite proud and a little overwhelmed, as you an imagine, so I went in on myself, you know, and I happened to glance at Robert, and he'd gone all strange."

"Strange?"

"Yes, glassy eyed and still, and he had his head cocked to one side."

"Interesting. And did he behave normally for the rest of the evening?"

"It's funny you should ask that…something _did _happen that evening which, to be honest, shook me a lot. I'd never known my Dad to be like that before, and I'll never look at him the same again…"

"You're jumping ahead. Back up a bit and tell me what he did."

"Sorry, well. We were all relaxing and Robert, along with some other guests, was staying the night with us, because of distance, you know. So it got late, and we were just turning in, when Dad discovered Robert in the kitchen, re-playing the CD which had the special song on it. I should mention that this song was recorded onto CD off a tape recorder, which in turn was recorded from a vinyl record, and before then it was sheet music, which my Dad keeps closely guarded in his private study. We're kind of an old fashioned family…"

"Go on."

Well, when Dad saw what Robert was doing, he blew a fuse. I have never seen him so angry. I tried to calm him down of course. "It's just a song, Dad," I said, "Can't he listen to it?"

"It's private – it's family business," he replied, and he was scarlet with rage.

"But he heard it over dinner."

"There's nothing new to hear then, is there? If you can't stop your friends poking their noses into personal matters then they can't come over, end of." With that, he grabbed the CD and stormed off.

"Well, that sort of dampened the mood a bit, so we decided to go off to bed and hope things had blown over in the morning. I tried to sleep, but it was a howling gale. I thought I heard footsteps at one point, but it turned out just to be a tree banging against the window of a room down the corridor from mine. When we woke in the morning the worst of the storm had passed, but it was still raining slowly and steadily. Robert was nowhere to be seen. I thought maybe he'd got himself a taxi back to the station, because he has quite a hot temper, but when we went to his room to clean it all his things were still there, and the bed wasn't even made. We didn't think he'd go off and leave all his things behind, so we waited for him to turn up. When he didn't get back by the evening we were all a bit flummoxed, as you can imagine. We thought he might come back the following morning, but he didn't. So I and the other guests spent the morning searching for him, but we found no trace of him. Then the other guests went home, and we thought it best to call in the police. We still didn't think he'd have gone far, but when _they _found nothing of him, and referred our case on to you, I started to get a bit of a bad feeling about the whole thing. And I don't know what to do and need your help. He's one of my oldest friends, and I'm really worried about him now, and I don't know what to do."

We sat in silence for a bit while I mulled over all I had heard.

"This was two weeks ago, you say?"

"Yes."

"And you said you had things for me to see and hear?" I asked.

"Yes," he took his diary out, and from its pages extracted a crumpled piece of A4 paper. On it were jotted some song lyrics in small, spiky writing that slanted to the left. "I found this on his bedside table." I studied the writing, and dim idea began to form in my head. Soul yawned and rolled over in her bed, becoming bored.

"I also have the CD with the song, for you to hear." He set up his personal CD player with a miniature speaker, and we both craned forward to hear the music:

_Who do you think had brought it here?_

_He who lost it and held it dear,_

_What did he lose for want of care?_

_All he owned and to which he was heir,_

_Who picked it up and took it away?_

_He who wanted more than his pay,_

_Who brought it back, and in disguise,_

_Hid it away from human eyes?_

_She whose clothes were as black as the hands_

_Of him who cast it away to the land._

_Where is it hidden, where did it go?_

_Away, away, mid Earth and snow,_

_At the spike of four, where the river runs,_

_On the far shore, where the oak gets the sun,_

_Its height yonder, down and under,_

_There it stays til the end of days._

"What do you think of that?" Robert Powell asked me, after playing it.

"It's an interesting piece for a collector of fairy tales." I mused.

Robert looked crestfallen. "So you don't think it meant anything then?"

"Me? No," I said slowly, "But your friend clearly did. Which may mean something."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he had a degree in history." I thought for a while, absent-mindedly folding and unfolding the piece of paper on which Robert Fielding had scribbled the lyrics. Eventually I made my decision. "Soul and I will take the train out to examine your house and the grounds."

"My father won't like that. He's always been very precious about family privacy – he says it's especially important in a manor, where scores of curious public could come milling around."

"But you've inherited the manor, so technically you must have the last say in whether I can come in."

"True, true. Of course I want you to get to the bottom of it."

"Besides, I'll need to question him."

Robert gave a snort of laughter. "You're welcome to try."

"Don't worry," I said, grabbing my coat and scarf, "I'll succeed."

Robert seemed surprised. "Are we going _now_?" he asked.

"Why not?" I replied. "I haven't got anything else booked, and there's a man missing, so I presume it ranks higher on your list of priorities than anything else."

"Y-yes. Of course."

"Then it's settled. C'mon, Soul." She jumped up obligingly, and the three of us left the flat, me tingling with anticipation at the prospect of a really good case that, if successfully completed, could well allow me to get into the good books of the official police force, thus quite possibly bringing me a guaranteed stream of intriguing mysteries for the foreseeable future.

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_Sent today at 00:00:22 GMT (BST)_


	64. Sherlock's 9th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: The Case

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"So, you're a consulting detective?"

"You know I am."

"What exactly does that entail then?"

"Cases like this."

"Ah. And what is it you like about the job?"

"Everything."

"No downsides?"

"Only the time in between work."

"If it were me I'd enjoy the free time…"

"I'm not like most people."

"Oh. So…er…you don't have any other hobbies then? Sports, reading, anything?"

"I keep a blog. I care for Soul."

"Your dog?"

"Yes."

"What kind of dog is she?"

"Border Collie cross Alsatian."

"Had her long?"

"No."

"Oh. Where did you get her from then, I mean, she must have been adult when you got her."

"Yes, I have contacts."

"It must be nice for you to get away from the city sometimes."

"Why? I see everything in terms of crime potential. When I look at the countryside I just think about victims screaming for help and nobody to hear them for miles."

"…Ah." Robert Powell searched for something else to say. "So what do you think about the problem? Do you think it's solvable?"

"In the sense that every problem has a solution, yes."

"What do you think the solution is?"

"Haven't the faintest. Haven't thought about it at all."

"What?" Robert looked indignant.

"No data," I explained, "If I theorise now I risk clouding my judgement later."

There was another awkward silence, which Robert broke tentatively: "I'm not annoying you, am I?"

"Honest answer or polite one?" He ceased his questioning. I gazed out the window and we lapsed into uneasy silence as the train glided North.

We reached Redheath Station at about seven in the evening. It was drizzling as we pulled in – that fine yet persistant type of drizzle that runs into every non-waterproof gap and leaves a person soaked and shivering. Luckily the station had a taxi rank, and we arrived at the manor soon after half seven.

It was like stepping into a scene from the nineteenth century. The manor was surrounded by fields dotted with trees and through which a river flowed. There was a walled vegetable garden, and another open flower garden, surrounded only by a fence. In the centre of this garden there was a flat, circular slab of stone with a spike sticking up out of the middle: A giant sundial. The house itself was a medium sized manor with four floors, with about twenty large windows in total set in the front wall. It was supported by huge, vertically ridged pillars and made of smooth, off-white stone. The doors were wooden and imposing. At the start of the path leading up to the front door there was a statue of two large copper angels, hands joined to form an archway through which Robert and I walked.

"We only really live in six of the rooms, not counting the hall," Robert explained, as we hung up our coats and Soul shook the rain out of her fur. "There's the kitchen, three bedrooms – each with their own bathroom, a living room and Dad's office. The rest are all shut up, except when the family's over for Christmas or a wedding." He led the way down the hall towards the kitchen. "I thought we might have dinner first, then you could see the spare room, and you could get started on the case tomorrow."

"Thank you," I said, "But I'd prefer to start straight away. Is your father around?"

Robert blinked, but he had become less surprised by my way of doing things as the day wore on, so he simply accepted this. "He'll be in his office. He doesn't like to be disturbed after six, but…"

"Yes but this could be a matter of life and death," I said briskly, noting the stairs and seeing Soul give a quizzical look and cock her head upwards, listening.

We followed the noises up the stairs, down a short landing and flung open the door to reveal a warm, ambient study, in which sat a man who was probably in his late fifties (hair and skin complexion), made his wife do all the work (I hadn't seen any staff, and neither his nor his son's hands showed signs of wear from clothes pegs or the subtle indent in the palm or thin burn makes suggestive of habitual ironing), was obsessive over his work (creases in forehead and between eyes, and a certain rounding of shoulders consistent with long hours spent hunching over a subject of interest), and did not like to be disturbed (the angry way he started shouting and ranting at me).

"How dare you come barging into MY study without knocking? Past six too! If you want to talk to me then talk tomorrow. And keep the dog out of my way or there'll be trouble." He turned accusingly to his son, "You didn't say there'd be a dog. It must stay in the spare room – I won't have the furniture being jumped on or muddied."

"It's a service dog," I muttered, and he looked at me darkly. "Well if it barks or jumps on the furniture it goes in the stables."

Soul looked at me questioningly, then at Robert's father, and then gave a tentative growl before looking back at me. I shook my head subliminally at her, and she contented herself with scratching behind her ear. I wanted to give this man a piece of my mind, but there are times when bluntness and bluntness simply repel each other, and you get nowhere. Occasionally bluntness can whet a person's curiosity enough for people to want to tell you things in the hope you'll reciprocate, thus causing them to reveal important pieces of information. Other times though it's wiser to put your energy into being amiable and friendly in order to get what you need.

"I'm very sorry to intrude," I told him, offering a hand to be shaken. "It really won't take long, I promise, but if it's any consolation it's about as important as it gets." I contrived an attitude of wonder and gazed round his room at the various artefacts adorning the walls and shelves, and the books in the bookshelf.

"You're interested in the middle ages?"

He seemed impressed with my guessing of his specialist subject, and sensing a way in I dug further. "I made the middle ages my hobby not long ago actually. Do you know a journal called "People and Time?"

"Of course I do – I get that journal on subscription."

"Do you remember a piece about the music of the middle ages that was published a couple of years back?"

"I do indeed. Very remarkable and unconventional take on the subject of style, recurring patterns of composition and how they influenced later classical music."

"Exactly. That was me." His mouth dropped open and I couldn't help breaking into a grin.

"Sherlock Holmes? I'm honoured! That must have taken years of research!"

"One summer, from start to finish. I'm an intense worker – like you by the looks of things."

"You must be – you must be!"

"So, this house. Judging by the architecture it was built fairly late. That must have been a disappointment for someone as interested in history as you."

"Not at all. Actually it's built on the ruins of another house that burned down in the seventeenth century. The history of that house went right back, even before the middle ages."

"Very interesting. I expect you've dug for artefacts?"

"Oh yes, we've had the garden carefully excavated. Most of the bits and pieces on my wall and in my cabinet come from the garden. It's an ongoing project."

"I bet the museums wish they could get their hands on these."

"I've been offered thousands, but I wouldn't sell them for the world. These are precious and they belong in the house."

"With the house being passed down through your family you must be able to trace their connection to family members."

"I haven't found any solid connections yet. There do appear to be connections to royalty though, way, way back. It's all still a bit hazy."

"You could always draw from the song…"

He stiffened slightly. "Oh, I just meant that, having studied the music of the middle ages, there are patterns of composition that suggest that the song, in some form, goes back that far. The sheet music – I'd be very interested to see it, if you have it."

He narrowed his eyes at me, weighing me up. On one hand I was a stranger who might destroy his precious relics. On the other, I was Sherlock Holmes who's piece he had read and admired in his favourite journal. Luckily the latter won out, and he went to his bookshelf and took out a large book, and from the pages of this he extracted some yellow leafs of music. He handed them to me, and I examined them. The paper was thin, fragile and yellow, but nowhere near faded enough to come from any time earlier than the sixteenth century.

"This survived the burning?"

"The person responsible for it was staying away at the time of the burning. I don't know how far it goes back, but it's the oldest written record of the song."

"Do you know if Robert Fielding saw this before he left?"

"Absolutely, definitely not. He heard the song on the CD but I put him in his place."

"I'd have thought you and he would enjoy discussing its origins."

"And lay bare all the secrets of the family? It was none of his business." I could sense heat creeping back into the conversation, and did not want to risk losing a potentially useful acquaintance, so I backed down immediately.

"I think I'd better get Soul walked and settled for the night, but it's been fascinating meeting you and discussing this. It's always been a passing interest for me."

"It was an absolute pleasure," he said, wringing me by the hand. "Would you mind…I mean…would you mind signing my copy of "People and Time"? The one with your article in?" I hadn't been expecting this, and fought down a flush of pleasure, with partial success, obliging him and then quickly exiting with Robert and Soul.

"You're honoured," he said, looking at me with wonder, "Dad's usually far more cagey than that with strangers."

"I was lucky," I said, waving a hand dismissively.

"Pity you didn't get round to questioning him about Robert more."

"What? But I did."

"When?"

"All the way through. Once I got him on my side he told me a wealth of useful information."

"He did?"

"Of course," I said, a little frustrated at his slowness on the uptake. "First, the history of the house's grounds goes way back in time and there are genuine artefacts still being recovered. You said Robert Fielding had a history degree – facts like that would surely have whetted his interest, coupled with the tradition of the song. I think he might have seen a deeper meaning in it than any of you have. With the possible exception of your father."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't ask me too much yet – molten ideas. I'll have a better idea tomorrow, with a bit of luck. Do you still have the lyrics of the song that Robert took down?"

He produced the piece of paper, and I folded it away in my pocket. Soul was fidgeting a little and getting whiny. "Tomorrow I'll be able to explain everything. Just now I need to let the facts mature in my mind, and Soul needs attention."

"I'll fix us something to eat."

"Don't eat when I'm working – it slows me down. Don't worry about me, you go ahead."

We left him and headed outside for a relief walk. It was still raining, and the lights from the occupied windows shone starkly. I examined the sun dial – redundant in this weather and at this time of night, and thought about the knotty tangle of events that makes up the history of every house, family and individual human being.

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_Sent today at 00:00:22 GMT (BST)_


	65. Sherlock's 10th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: More of The Case

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We were both very wet by the time we got back inside. As it transpired, Soul hadn't particularly wanted a relief walk – she just wanted to stretch her legs after a day of standing around. I took a shower and when I returned Soul was perched on the windowsill gazing out at the rain with pricked ears. "Oh no no," I told her firmly, lifting her down. "If you jump on the furniture you'll get us both thrown out." I fetched a flannel and cleaned off the slight stains she had left behind, finding a small guide to Redheath that she had been sitting on.

Soul prowled around the room restlessly, and I didn't feel much like sleeping myself. So I changed into my pyjamas and fetched the pillows and duvet from my bed. These I arranged in a comfortable sort of heap and spread my dressing gown over the top. I then fetched the guide, sat crosslegged on the heap and called Soul. "Pay attention," I instructed, opening the guide book.

"Introduction: Redheath's history as a settlement can be traced back to Neolithic times, with structures and artefacts still preserved today. Perhaps the most famous of these are the two stones of Sile Hill, one of which was flattened after a storm in 1963. Other curiosities include arrow heads and even a pair of bog-preserved sandals, which are now property of the town's museum. More recently, Redheath was a mining village, with the industry steadily growing and peaking between the early eighteenth century and mid nineteenth century. The mines closed in the fifties due to flooding and rock falls.

"Since then Redheath has lived off tourism, brought here by its worldwide reputation for agriculture, scenery and history. Sites worth visiting include the Heaven hiking trail over Sile Hill and along the Castle Cliffs; the Victorian coal mines which intercept the famous Castle Caves on the coast, the standing stones, Redheath family farm and of course the museum itself."

I flicked idly through the rest of the guide, glancing briefly at an interview with a one-hundred-and-six year old ex-miner who had escaped two rockfalls and nearly been trapped in a flood. He described the feeling of dread when the sounds of the water flowing stopped, signifying the submergence of the tunnel, and the relentless use of horses in the wider tunnels and children in the narrower ones, one of which had been himself aged seven.

There was a short section on the history or Redheath manor itself, where I learned it had once had an observatory which was torn down in favour of the library, despite violent protests and a campaign from the locals. I also read a good deal about the limestone and how, because it made the soil so rich, the agricultural industry had blossomed over the centuries, accounting for much of the land's habitation and working. In the same section was a sickeningly sentimental description of the so-called 'Heaven' hiking trail. Another section described a famous visit from a monarch a long time ago, but I quickly became bored as I realised there was nothing in this guide that was not hopelessly biased and selective, and eventually I threw it down in frustration.

You might be wondering why I'm relating all these boring details. I had to make a mental not of them all in order to put the lyrics of the song into context. I was absolutely sure these lyrics had something to do with the history of the house, and if not the house then the area itself, and since the house had been very influential in the past the two were arguably inseparable. But what the significance was, I still had no idea.

I heaved Soul off my knees and fetched the song lyrics. While I was up Soul curled up on my heap of bedclothes so I sat on the bed and read an re-read them. At that stage, as I mentioned, I was still using smokable nicotine, as well as injecting stronger substances regularly in order to help me think. Through a haze of smoke and glitter I sat all night and attempted to reconcile the lyrics with information – any information – available in the guide book. I could not do so. At four O'clock I went through to the bathroom and splashed cold water over my face. The effects of the stimulants were beginning to wear off a little and I didn't want the comedown until I had found the solution. In the course of splashing my face, I noticed that the window, rather than being frosted, was covered with a blind. Curiously I drew it up to reveal a clear window looking out onto the grounds. The sun was just beginning to rise and long shadows were being cast by the bushes and the giant oak trees in the fields. I happened to glance at the sundial, the spike of which was casting a gigantic shadow of at least fifty metres out into the field.

That was when something in my brain clicked, and I grabbed the song lyrics. "At the spike of four…" And the bit about this spike pointing across the river and the sun shining onto the oak tree. I followed the spike, and sure enough if I drew a line out from the end of the shadow it seemed to point across the river to the largest of all the oak trees, the side of which shone brilliantly as the point of light from the rising sun fell squarely upon it. I knew then that I had only a few minutes in which to act, or the oak tree in question would lose its radiance. I grabbed the song lyrics, summoned Soul and together we hurried as quickly and quietly as possible down the stairs and out onto the lawn.

It was dewy and my bare feet became freezing and wet as I jogged across the grass and squinted at the oak trees in the field across from the river. The oak in question was still lit up, albeit more faintly. The first part, I reasoned, was easy. I just had to examine the area around the oak and look for signs that Robert Fielding had been there. It shouldn't be hard because if he had pulled up grass or upturned stones there would still be visible grooves in the ground and tufts with broken ends. We took off at a run until we reached the fence that bordered the field with the river in it. This fence was made of barbed wire, and although I'm not thrown by much, I didn't particularly like the idea of spearing a very delicate part of my body in an attempt to climb over, especially given the fact that I was clad only in pyjamas.

Soul ran up and down the fence, scouting out a place to cross, without much luck. I examined it too, and eventually found something that Soul would not, despite her intelligence, have realised the significance of: Tiny ragged fibres still clinging to the underside of one of the barbed rows. On close examination these were not the semi-degraded, natural fibres of animal wool, but the non-degradable, synthetic fibres of clothing. Somebody had crossed at this point and torn their clothes in the process. It was interesting that there were no such fibres clinging to the top of the row of barbed wire – they all hung from the underside. I checked the row beneath and, as I suspected, I found fibres tangled in the _top _of the barbs. From this I concluded that somebody had sacrificed a good quality suit – a kind not made for the country and more than suitable for an important birthday party – crawling between the rows of barbs.

This information presented me with two good things and one bad thing. The first good thing was that it was possible to cross the fence by sliding between the barbs. The second was that we were on the right trail. The not so good thing was that this seemed to be the safest way across, and yet it certainly seemed that I would suffer a lot of scratches in the process. However, the importance of this paled in comparison to the importance of the work we had to do, so I braced myself, parted the row of barbed wire and quickly scrambled through, holding up the bottom row for Soul to squeeze under.

My back felt like it was on fire, and I reached my hand up as far as it would go. I felt something warm, wet and sticky, as well as ragged, parallel tears in my pyjamas. When I withdrew my hand I saw blood smeared across my fingers and under my nails. Soul jumped up, attempting to investigate, but I simply told her to back off, and we made our way towards the stream. The stones were slimy, and the current was fairly strong. Soul made her way across easily, bounding from stone to stone and then shaking herself off on the other side. She then ran up and down the bank again, in a quandary as to what to do about me still being on the other side. I stepped carefully onto the algae-covered stones, and got halfway across with no great mishap. It was stepping onto what appeared to be a broad, flat stone that the trouble occurred. I hadn't known it but the underside was uneven, and when I stepped on it I caused it to tip forward. This threw my balance and I flailed, trying unsuccessfully to regain it. My foot slipped forward on the algae, and I fell heavily on my side, rolling over in the current.

I picked myself up and got across the rest of the river with no more problems, reaching the tree just as the last of the glow disappeared from its East side. Now it was just a case of examining the ground around the tree. Soul began sniffing intently, and I got down on my hands and knees. I felt a thrill as I found a stone with an indent beside it. Somebody had moved that stone, and beside it there were broken stalks and a bald patch of soil, just as I had guessed there might be. The trail led up to the tree, and I noticed a hollow in it. I stuck my hand in, but there was nothing there. I looked all round the tree and found initials carved on its massive trunk. "R.F." So, he was not only driven but egotistical. He was in it for the self-glory of finding whatever treasure had been described in the song, and he wanted it to be known that he was the first to find it. But then I looked more closely: There were other, extremely faint engravings visible on the tree. I wished I'd brought my magnifying glass, but I hadn't thought at the time, so I brought my face up close to the tree. Tracing one of the carvings with a finger I could just about make out an elaborate horse, medieval in style and etched so long ago that its outline might almost have become part of the very bark itself.

Speaking of bark I heard a bark at that moment from Soul. She was scrabbling at the ground, her mouth open in an excited grin, burying her nose into the grass. "What have you found?" I enquired, jogging over. I just had time to notice that she was standing on the edge of what appeared to be a pot hole, when the ground gave way beneath my feet.

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_Sent today at 14:12:202 GMT (BST)_


	66. Sherlock's 11th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: The Hole

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I twisted in the air, into darkness, before falling heavily on my left arm and foot. My arm took the majority of the fall, and as I landed I felt and heard a crunch, and my arm crumpled beneath me as, simultaneously my left ankle twisted sideways. Suddenly, for the first and to date the only time in my life, I was shrieking in agony. It was a knife. More than a knife, a vice, an explosion of pain. In fact, there are no words that adequately describe those first blinding moments, until I think I must have fainted. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes and the next thing I remembered was a bright but distant light, and Soul's head silhouetted against it.

I realised I was lying at the bottom of a deep shaft, with a tunnel that led off from it. "Soul, get help!" I called up, and she dutifully disappeared, leaving me alone. I rolled onto my back, momentarily forgetting the other wounds and bruises until the pain from the scratches reared its ugly head once again. I vaguely remember, in retrospect, groggily thinking through the pain that those wounds were now covered in dirt which was probably not a good thing, but it didn't seem to really matter, as nothing at this point seemed very real.

I glanced down the tunnel as far as light would permit, and saw a shoe-clad foot protruding. Maybe it was the pain altering my judgement, or maybe it was hard-headed curiosity, but I found myself unable to resist investigating. After some excruciating experimentation I discovered that the best way for me to move forward was on my hands and knees, keeping my left ankle elevated and my broken arm tucked in close to my body. It was a precarious way of moving but it worked, and slowly I made my way down the tunnel.

It was a man. The man who had ripped his clothes on the barbed wire fence. Tall, black hair, indents around his eyes consistent with glasses, and dressed in a now almost unrecognisable suit. He was splayed out on the floor, eyes close, hands wasted, face drawn, very obviously dead. I searched in his pockets and pulled out a diary. Its pages were smudged almost beyond recognition, but not enough to disguise the slanty G or the spiky T that matched the song lyrics Robert Fielding had written down. "Silly man," I muttered under my breath, gazing at the body. "All for a historical relic." I started to wonder what had killed him. On examination there were no broken bones in his body and the only signs of wastage were caused by time. Then I noticed the lumps of coal strewn around him, all pointing up the tunnel towards the hole down which I had fallen. Not only did such an occurrence strongly suggest that they had been brought up by water, which had ditched them where they lay, but it confirmed my suspicions that what I had fallen into was the long-forgotten arm of a disused coal mine.

I looked at Robert Fielding's un-tucked shirt and the tails of his coat, and saw they had been washed into the same orientation as the coal lumps. I had a flashback of Robert Powell mentioning the stormy weather on the night of Robert Fielding's disappearance, and the interview with the miner about flooding. You know I have never been one to get what people refer to as 'the creeps,' but I promise you the thought of such a horrible death gave me them right then. I turned to make my way back to the tunnel entrance when suddenly there was an almighty slewing and the roof just in front of me began to crack and crash inwards. I hurled myself backwards, causing myself another wave of intense agony, and managed to escape most of the rockfall. However my weight must have disturbed the rock in the tunnel too, which began to slide downwards, taking me with it. I came to a stop after a few seconds, breathing hard, but apart from fresh white waves of pain up and down my arm, pulsating pain in my ankle and searing pain all over my back, I had not sustained any new injuries. I was, however, plunged into pitch and utter blackness, and due to the rock slide I had no idea which way was the way back. I started to crawl forward, but could feel the ground precarious under my feet. I stretched my good hand out in front of me, and then above me, feeling for a wall to guide me. I could feel none, which at least reassured me that the tunnel was wide so there would be plenty of air. Oh yes, air. How much oxygen would be down here, I wondered? And what about poisonous gases?

The frailty of the human body is a blind spot in our minds for most of us, including me. It has to be. Going out in the sun you risk cancer. Going down the stairs you risk breaking your neck. Plugging in a kettle you risk electrocution. We don't generally think about it unless faced with what appears to be a check-mate situation. As I sat in the darkness the silence closed in around me and I realised my chances of survival were now, realistically, slim. I was deep underground, with a ton of rock cutting me off from my escape route. It was very possible that I could be crushed under a similar rockfall at any moment. On top of that were my physical injuries and the very real danger of suffocation. I rolled onto my good side and tried, without success, to come to terms with my own mortality.

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_Sent today at 13:13:11 GMT (BST)_


	67. Sherlock's 12th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: How I Got Out The Mines

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How long I lay there I have no idea. What roused me was not some sudden noise or hope or danger. It was the silence. The miner in the interview said that in the mines which had flooded, or at least the ones near running water, the first sign of flooding had been the cessation of the sounds of water as the lower tunnels were submerged. Stupid, _stupid_…why hadn't I realised? The river's current had been surprisingly strong and the water level was higher than normal given the submerged grass I had seen at the banks, not to mention the rain over the last few days, just like the rain before Robert Fielding's death. Somehow this put things into perspective. If I didn't move I would eventually drown. If I did I would probably drown anyway, as I had no directional aids. But at least if I crawled it would pass the time and there was the infinitesimal chance I would reach an exit point.

So I crawled. I crawled slowly, testing the ground as I went to make sure I didn't cause another landslide, feeling always for a wall and not finding one. Perhaps I was going in circles – I had no way of knowing. It wasn't unlikely, given my crooked, unbalanced way of moving. At a rough estimate, from my rate of breathing, I crawled for about three hours until I started to feel light headed, and the skin had been rubbed off my knees and right palm. It was the lapping, further down the tunnel, that scared me into stillness. This was the water coming for me, and judging by the sound it was only a hundred metres or so away. I didn't dare crawl any more, and I knew that if I backed up I would only back myself into a wall of collapsed rock, there to wait out the inevitable. So I stayed, frozen in position, feeling like a wild animal cornered by a hunt.

I suddenly felt desperately, desperately lonely. It was a thoroughly unnerving feeling for me. I hated it. It meant I was dependent in a way I did not choose to be, did not foresee, could not control and which weakened me – weakened my faculties. It also meant Mycroft had been right about me – another fact I greatly resented. And yet the feeling was there and undeniable. Would people come to my funeral? Mycroft would. Although I couldn't stand him I felt unexpectedly good about that. Mummy would come too. Robert Powell might. Maybe some old university acquaintances, but probably not. Would there even be a funeral, or would I simply be perpetually missing? Perhaps my disappearance would never be explained, given the incompetency of the official force. In spite of myself I smiled – I rather liked that idea – the world's only consulting detective disappears without trace and the mystery continues.

Then suddenly I was seething at myself for my own stupidity. If I had put the clues together from the start I would have known what I was up against. They were there from the start – "She whose clothes were as black as the hands of he who cast it away to the land," and "Away away, mid earth and snow," and "…Yonder, down and _under_". I punched the floor, grazing my knuckles. I knew it did no good, but I was going to drown in a short while anyway, so what difference could one more scratch make? Shortly after this there came a strange and distinct sound, nothing like the quiet lapping of the water. A sort of very fast clack-clack-clacking which grew louder and closer rapidly. I knew it, but couldn't place it.

Then I got what remains to this day one of the biggest frights I have ever had, not because it was particularly frightening but because of my mindset at the time. Something wet and warm and vibrating with life pushed its way firmly into the palm of my hand. I shuffled rapidly backwards, swatting out with my good hand, but then I felt and smelt the damp fur and the muscles and bones moving under it and heard and felt the warm breath on my hands. Sensations I knew so well but were accentuated in this literal and figurative darkness.

I didn't know how Soul got in, but it meant there had to be another way out. I knew the oxygen would be used up more quickly, but I also knew there was now a glimmer of hope for survival. "Good girl, Soul," I told her, ruffling the fur on her neck and feeling her incline her head towards the petting. I held her head and put my mouth close to her ear. "Show me the way out," I said. There was a pause, and then I drew back sharply as I felt her teeth jab into my right wrist. But in fact she was not biting me…she was grabbing my sleeve, 'holding on' as I had shown her how to do. She started to tug, and when I began following she let go, trotting ahead and pausing every now and then to let me catch up. She was leading me deeper, and I could feel wet on my knees and hand, until I was crawling through about six inches of water. I began to wonder if Soul had any idea where she was going, but every time I stopped she would grab my sleeve and tug with such determination and conviction that I knew it was in both of our interests for me to follow. Never have I placed such blind faith in another being, and never would I have imagined that being would be non-human.

After another hour of crawling strange things began happening to my mind. Despite being blind the walls around me seemed to expand and shrink. The ghosts of the former miners seemed to swirl and whisper things to me – things about my life, Soul's voice and the police in league with Satan…and my body began to tremble. I shook my head, objectively aware that something was going on within my body that was causing these things, but subjectively sinking into a semi-awake, dreamlike state from which Soul kept dragging me back. When I started getting chills all over and yet my cheeks felt as if they were scalding me, I began to suspect what was wrong. After fibre rags from my pyjamas getting dragged into them, and river water and dirt and coal the wounds on my back had gone septic and the sepsis had entered my bloodstream. My heart was out of control in my chest, even as I tried to slow it down to conserve oxygen and slow the inevitable spread of the infection long enough to make it out of the mine.

Soon I was shuddering so violently all over that crawling became difficult and tiring. I had to keep stopping for rests and drinks from the slowly rising water, until I started vomiting uncontrollably. Each time I rested the temptation to stop and just let the water wash over me grew greater and greater as my condition deteriorated. But Soul would not let me stop. She would bark until I responded, and then drag me forward determinedly, breaking through the fog and urging me on. She left me with no choice but to follow. I think in the end I followed her in a semi-stupor, regressing to a painfully slow army crawl.

I don't really remember much about the next stretch of time because I was barely conscious, but at some point I stopped, licked some water off the now-wet walls that had materialised around me, and tasted salt. That woke me up a little and it took my sluggish brain some time to reason that we must be near the sea. Something about that seemed significant, but I couldn't place it in amongst the insects parading over my body and crowing over their victory, the rocks beating out a war dance in my inner ear and the bed of oysters and half crowns over which I moved, so prolific did they seem. Then suddenly there was light glinting off the water and the wet walls around me and in front of me, and the sound of waves breaking, and I knew what it was I had been searching for. The Redheath guidebook had stated that the Castle Caves and the old coal mines intercepted each other. Soul – clever, wonderful Soul – had followed the sound of the underground water down until it reached the sea, and once down there the faint sounds of my disorientated crawling and maybe even my breathing had fallen on her far more sensitive ears and guided her up the tunnel towards me.

That one moment of relief and of realisation and anticipation of being able to let go in safety was almost enough on its own to cause me to lose consciousness. I felt myself slipping for a moment, but with an immense effort of will I dragged my mind back from the recesses and pressed on. The stones at the mouth of the cave proved a near impossible challenge to navigate on my stomach, but I managed it and at last collapsed onto my good side, breathing in the cool, fresh, oxygen-rich air, looking up at the ominous clouds, feeling the rain and the wind on my face and listening to the sounds of life around me. Soul licked at my face, and I reached up and stroked her head with my good hand. Then I saw that the tide was drawing in. "Get help," I slurred to her, hazily seeing a light shining from what looked like a seaside chalet.

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_Sent today at 09:13:45 GMT (BST)_


	68. Sherlock's 13th Email Response to John

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Sepsis

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What I am now going to narrate is pieced together from accounts given by Robert Powell and the person in the chalet – Miss Moira Dunn, as well as my own memories and some medical notes I gained unauthorised access to. Moira Dunn had been having a quiet night in after working all day at the post office, when she heard scratching on the door. She opened it, and it was Soul, who was very black from the coal mine. She thought Soul must be a stray because her fur was so matted and dirty, and tried to draw her into the house, but Soul ducked away, and moved off a short distance, looking back at Moira, before returning to the door. She did this several times and then barked, until Moira finally realised that she was attempting to lead her somewhere. She got her coat and boots and followed Soul down the path to the beach and along to the mouth of the cave.

When she got there she saw me, and I had lost consciousness. Moira was very shocked and knelt down beside me. I was still breathing, just. My back was lacerated, inflamed and putrid, my arm was at an odd angle and my ankle was blue-green and looked as if it was inflatable. I was also black from head to foot with coal dust, and soaking wet all over. I doubt anyone who knows me would have recognised me, judging by her description. I had also vomited again, onto the sand, but because I had been lying on my side I hadn't choked. Not having her mobile phone, she ran as fast as possible back to her house and called 999. She then returned to me, taking her mobile phone with her, and tried to bring me round. She said my heartbeat was very weak but very fast, that though my extremities were cold to the touch the rest of me burned her to touch, and that though my breathing was very rapid it was extremely shallow. She didn't want to move me in case my spine was injured. The ambulance crew arrived and Moira showed them down to where I lay. When they got to me they put me on oxygen because my saturation levels were low, started IV fluids and then I was taken to Dumfries Infirmary, which was fifteen miles North of Redheath and the nearest hospital with a high dependency unit.

That was Moira's account of the whole thing. According to my medical records my condition was sepsis originating from infection of the wounds in my back. When I arrived my blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels plummeted and my breathing became more and more laboured until they had to mechanically ventilate me. They took blood from all sorts of unsavoury places and tested it for a multitude of different things, chemical, bacterial and things indicative of my general homeostatic state. Then I was started on drugs to combat the heart failure I was found to be suffering from, steroids, because my system had become inflamed, as well as antibiotics to try and get rid of the bacteria, whatever type it was. They never identified it, so the antibiotic treatment was a matter of trial and error.

Robert's experiences pick up from here, but are collectively somewhat shorter. Apparently I spent a good six days ventilator dependent and a total of two weeks completely unconscious.

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My waking is where my narrative will get rather fractured, because I suffered from a lot of confusion, as well as initial bouts of amnesia. In fact, the waking up was not a sudden occurrence – it was a spectrum I seemed to go through, and I didn't go through it in a stereotypically linear fashion either. I would seem to make headway one moment, only to slip all the way back down again a short while later. The first thing I was aware of was the beeping of a heart monitor, and I remember wondering if that was my heart, and if so what it was doing all the way over there, but I wasn't afraid. It just seemed unusual but nothing to be alarmed about. Then I was out again. This brief awareness and then sinking back happened many, many times over the next week or so. At first I had no gauge of time, and then time stretched and elongated, until I felt I had crawled from one nightmare into another where I had no control over my body or, infinitely worse for somebody like me, my own mind and thoughts.

Speaking of nightmares, in those first stages they came often. The miners, whom I thought I had left deep in the tunnels, swirled through my hard drive like a computer virus, sifting through all my amassed information, mocking it, deriding it and moving it all around so I didn't know where everything was, and couldn't organise my thoughts. Now and again snatches of distorted classical music would drift into my head, or the firing of a gun and a scream, or a random chemistry fact, such as the fact that le Chatalier's principle could shift a chemical equilibrium to favour the reverse reaction, and colourful characters from crime papers that I had read in the past whispered abuse in my ears…

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My back had been heavily dressed. My left arm was set in plaster, but my ankle was only cushioned, which led me to reason that it had not been broken, just sprained by the fall into the mine. My throat felt raw and stretched and very dry. The fingers on my good hand curled inwards into my palms and shivered as I unstretched them to touch my face, and when I did I felt a nasal oxygen cannula. A central intravenous line protruded from my chest, and various monitors and wires seemed to be taped to my extremities. I moved my good leg, but the movement was uncontrolled and ungainly, tangled in a urinary catheter and very painfully pulled it out. I moaned, and somebody soothed me and replaced it.

"How long have I been unconscious?" I tried to ask, but what came out instead was an inarticulate squeak. I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a voice saying things in a low tone, before I disappeared again under the surface.

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"What's your name?"

"Pip."

"How long have I been here?"

"It's been two weeks."

"Two weeks?"

"Yes."

"Oh." (pause) "How long?"

"Two weeks."

"What's your name?"

"Pip."

"Oh. Well I need to go back to the mine before the tide gets in…"

"Sherlock, that was two weeks ago, do you understand?"

"Oh yes. What happened?"

"You've been fighting sepsis."

"So I have. My back…"

"It was infected from the fibres of your pyjamas."

"Oh yes, where are my pyjamas?"

"We had to throw them away. They were beyond repair – I'm sorry."

"But I only got them yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"I got them the day before the case started and that was yesterday."

"You're forgetting, it's been two weeks."

"Two weeks?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Oh yes. What's your name, by the way?"

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"You have to let me go! I have a dog! Here name is Soul! Where – ?"

" – Everything's alright. Robert's taking care of her."

"Robert died in a mine two weeks ago."

"No, Robert Powell."

"You know then?

"All I know is that there were two Roberts and one is alive and the other…is not."

"Ok, good. Yes. So who has Soul then? Where is she?"

"Robert's looking after her."

"I want to see her."

"I'm afraid you can't. You're in the high dependency unit."

"But I've been away for two weeks. She needs to be looked after."

"Robert's taking care of her."

"You've already said that."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

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"Why won't my brain work? There's a fog…and nightmares."

"It's probably the effects of the sedatives."

"What sedatives?"

"You've been on sedatives."

"For pain? There was no pain – I was unconscious."

"You were in a medically induced sleep."

"Why?"

"In order to recover."

"…So to bring me out of unconsciousness you put me into a coma…?"

"Your system needed complete rest in order to recover from the sepsis."

"You intentionally paralyzed me and stopped me doing my work."

"Sherlock, we were only…"

"Get away from me! Who authorised you to do that?"

"Your doctor."

"Who does he work for?"

"I don't understand what you mean…_she _works…"

"Which gang? I'm the world's only consulting detective! This has to be some kind of plan. Unconscious for two weeks…anything could have happened and I was helpless to act – he _knew _that because he _caused _it!"

"_She _prescribed it in order to treat you so that you could get better and continue your work."

"Where's the proof?"

"The proof is in the fact that you're still here. That you're being weaned off the sedatives. That the sepsis has gone. That you're breathing on your own. That your heart has recovered. That you're talking to me. That you've not suffered any permanent organ damage. That's the proof, Sherlock."

"Yes. I suppose it is. I _wish _I could think properly…"

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"I'll be leaving this weekend."

"I'm sorry, that won't be possible. You could die."

"How long then?"

"It's difficult to say. It could be weeks. You'll have to gradually re-learn everything."

"I can't wait that long. I'm a detective…"

"I'm sure your colleagues will cover for you. Do you have a contact number? We couldn't find one."

"You don't understand, I'm the word's only consulting detective. I created the job."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What does that entail then?"

"Solving cases. Thank you for your care – I need to find my things…"

"You're not nearly well enough to go yet."

"Then can I have a laptop with internet access?"

"I don't see why not."

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I had the laptop…but I couldn't use it. I fought against sleep and I fought against weak muscles, but my body seemed to have taken over. This was extremely frustrating. I dislike my body. Not in the sense of its appearance, but in the sense that I depend upon it. I am a brain. The rest of me is a mere appendage, so to have that appendage rebel and prevent the real mefrom functioning – that got to me, and I ended up in clinical depression. This put me into a vicious circle. I lost interest in my surroundings, which meant I made no attempt to recover, which meant I did not get better, which meant I could not use the laptop or read the crime papers or pursue Robert's case, which meant that I got frustrated and depressed, which meant I lost interest in my surroundings…I slept a lot, some out of exhaustion but mainly from boredom. They tried to start me re-weaning and re-gaining mobility but I didn't want to know. They tried psychiatric counselling, but I refused to cooperate. They tried antidepressants but they didn't work – you can't put happiness into a pill.

One day, Pip the nurse came into my room and sat on the chair beside my bed. "There's a friend here to see you," she said.

"Don't have friends," I said and turned away from her.

"Well there are two visitors for you who would disagree."

"Fine," I said, resigned, "Open the floodgates."

"They're not coming to you," she said, "You'll have to come to them."

"Then they can fuck off," I said, surprising myself with my word choice and the viciousness with which it came out. Pip didn't answer, and suddenly there was another nurse in the room with her. Ignoring my protests they sat me up and wheeled me and my IV pump out the room, down the corridor, into a lift, down to the ground floor and into a small, empty room with French windows that looked out into a garden area. Pip stayed with me while the other nurse disappeared from the room.

And then Soul came wandering into view, sniffing the flowers and grass in the garden. I craned forward, breaking into a smile, and my bed creaked as I did so. Soul pricked up her ears and then her head turned in my direction. She stiffened, and then hurtled towards the window, barking and whining. She ran up and down outside the window, looking for a way in, and when there was no way in she went up on her hind legs, smudging the glass with her muddy paws and pressing her nose up against the window. I felt an odd, tight, twisting sensation behind my eyes and sinuses and in my chest and throat. I put my hand to my central line to see if something had caught on it, as that sometimes happened. It hadn't, so I attributed it to side-effects of the cocktail of medication I was still on, and ignored it. Robert came into view and waved at me.

"How is she?" I mouthed.

"Fine!" He mouthed back. "A handful."

"Keep her occupied and she'll stay out of trouble." He looked confused and shrugged at me.

"Keep her amused," I mouthed, and mimed throwing a ball, and playing tug of war. His brow cleared, and he gave me a thumbs up.

"Visit in one week," I mouthed, holding up one finger, and then seven fingers. After several variations on this, he got the message.

Shortly after this, I was wheeled back to the ward. Another nurse, Emma, checked my medical stats and hooked me back up to my pump. "You're looking better," she commented.

"I've got a lot of work to do," I told her, already making plans in my mind.

Because my muscles had been weakened I had to be gradually re-introduced to food and mobility. I rather liked the idea of keeping my central IV line in. Eating through it didn't require digestion, so it didn't slow me down. It was also less distracting and seemed more convenient than food, as everything came ready to use in little, sterile packets. It was Pip who convinced me otherwise, saying that even if they were allowed to do that, it would require me to carry an infusion pump in a backpack nearly twenty four hours a day, as well as sterile tape and dressings, sterile heparin and saline flushes and bags of TPN. Then there were the pump malfunctions and the risk of clogging, infection and, ironically, sepsis as a result, as well as the hassle of attending regular clinics and surgery to maintain the line within me. I quickly saw sense.

At first I was weaned onto go-complete, which is a sip feed a little like a slimming shake. When I first tried this I kept choking and also retching sometimes, because my swallow reflex was floppy and sluggish, which put my breathing coordination out of synch. I tired very quickly initially. But I am an intense worker, to the point of having to be forced by the nurses to take breaks and rests, or to stop for the day. This frustrated me, because I was still not mobile enough to get my own food, and when they felt it was enough they would simply refuse to bring me any more until I had rested. I hated being the only person who had no control over my own body. I then graduated to purees, before having small meals. At first it was just rice and potatoes, then vegetables and fruit, then small amounts of egg and dairy were introduced to increase protein, then finally meat and fish.

At the same time as this, I worked very hard on regaining my physical strength and mobility. I recovered full continence before walking. When I first stood up my legs shook like jelly and I didn't trust myself to take a step. Then I moved short distances along a wall, before starting to walk unsupported.

Once I could do this the nurses would walk with me for short distances around the hospital corridors, but I got so angry with them for doing this, or for helping me in any way that it didn't last long. I can remember one particular occasion where Pip and I were walking down the corridor together, and I leant on a muscle in my leg in a particular way which must have placed pressure on a weak spot. I stumbled sideways, and she steadied me. I felt extreme frustration at her, which took the form of an angry outburst: "You steadied me! Did I ask you to steady me? Did I? No. Do people do that to you when you walk down the street after coming home? No. So I'd greatly appreciate it if you stopped wrapping me in cotton wool and doing things for me that in the real world I have to be able to do myself!"

Her response was spoken calmly, without missing a beat. "If I hadn't steadied you you'd have staggered sideways, fallen and cracked your skull on the corner of that stretcher – " here she pointed, " – Putting you back in that hospital bed, unconscious all over again." I saw her point, and with difficulty I calmed myself. "I know it's hard being dependent on others, but allowing people to help you now will mean you are discharged and can become independent again sooner. Think of Soul," she tactically reminded me, and that put things into perspective.

I began to be able to use the laptop, and soon afterwards was transferred to a medium dependency ward. I started reflecting on things I could learn from this case – things I would do differently next time. If I thought a case hinged on the history of a place, I would do a lot more research, both on site and locally, and not only gather information about the case but also dangers that I would have to take into account for my investigation. For example, if I'd visited the local museum and asked more about the house without being so cocksure of myself I might well have known to beware of such shafts and trodden more carefully. Following on the heels of this I would be more careful once I had the solution to a problem. The figuring out of the case itself is important, but so is the figuring out of how to bring that case to fruition. I would never let curiosity override my better judgement, as I had done by going to investigate the body of Robert Fielding. Then there was Soul. It was luck more than anything else that there was someone able to take her in and take care of her while I recovered. If I was to keep an animal I would need in the future to make arrangements for that animal, should anything happen to me.

Mycroft visited me, as did Robert Powell. The former of these sat stiffly at the end of the bed, talked of Mummy and work in the government and other things that didn't interest me in the slightest, then said it reminded him of the old days when I was in for EEGs as a child. I agreed with a slight inclination of my head. He then said, with emotion, that he'd been very worried about me, and that he was relieved I was doing as well as I was and that he could finally visit me. I said "Good," in reply, and waited for him to leave.

As for Robert Powell, I realised I owed him my thanks not only for taking care of Soul all this time, but for his patience with the results of my investigation. He waved this aside, insisting it was all his fault, as he had called me out on the case.

"Did you know about the pot holes?" I asked.

"No, I had no idea."

"Then you don't have anything to feel guilty about."

"Fair point," he conceded. "So…did you ever find out anything?"

"Yes. And then I used the laptop and internet here to piece the rest together and confirm my theory."

"What did you find out?"

"All of it. Well, as much as anyone will ever know."

"He's dead, isn't he?" Robert whispered.

"Yes," I confirmed, "He's dead."

"How…what…was it?"

"Drowning. I don't think the body can be recovered now."

"Ah." Robert gazed out the widow, dry-eyed, digesting this news.

"He found the potholes and went into them – treasure hunting, I think."

"Treasure hunting?"

"Yes. The song – it describes something hidden in the grounds by a miner on behalf of Queen Victoria – she wore black in mourning, as the song hints. Someone important lost something important sometime in the middle ages, due to the greed of another person. That much I could deduce from the song lyrics themselves. I checked some historical websites and online library articles, and there was a man, Sir Reginald Musgrave, who owned the manor and was apparently the last intentional recipient of the lost shield of the Swedish king Albert, in the fourteenth century. The shield was taken in 1389 in an attempt to pay a ransom for a defeat by Danish troops. Over time it must somehow have worked its way across Europe and into the hands of Reginald Musgrave, whom I believe to be the original writer of at least the first six lines of the song. Your father said the house has vague connections with royalty, which would fit this sequence of events. By all accounts Reginald Musgrave was a good poet and musician, and he lived in the right time period. We won't ever know for sure though. But after the first six lines – the first melody cycle, the rest must have been written at a later period, given the huge time jumps the lyrics of the song cover.

"My guess – and I never guess unless it has no bearing on anything in the present or my evidence is really excellent, both of which are the case here – is that the shield was saved from the house during the fire you mentioned, and that somehow it ended up causing so much trouble amongst the aristocracy down the years that Queen Victoria ordered it to be hidden in a secret location. This was done by an exceptionally clever miner who hid it in the area of the coal mine in the grounds of the manor, hence the line "…As black as the hands of him who cast it away to the land…" and there it has lain ever since. It had to be the miner who wrote the rest of the song, since it was hidden in secret. I don't know whether the miner was a relation to you or not."

Robert's eyes had glazed over, not from lack of interest but from information overload. When I had finished, he whistled softly. "That's incredible," he murmured. Then, "But how come we have lyrics for the song – the whole song – that probably date back to the middle ages or just after, if the last lines refer to something that happened in the Victorian era?"

"Somebody must have filled them in later, copying the style. A good imitator too – the best. There were three leafs of lyrics if I remember correctly – and I always do. The first had the first six lines – that was the genuine artefact. The second had the next six lines and the third had the last four lines. If we analysed the ink and carbon-dated the paper, the differences would be very obvious."

"I see. And you pieced all this together while recovering here?"

"Oh, just passing the time." I waved away his astonishment. "It's a very ropey sketch of events. Anything that far back with as few documented facts as this is bound to be vague."

"Even so…" He paused. "So, Robert fielding saw all that in the song and went to track it down?"

"Yes. A remarkable brain. He wasn't the only one though."

"What do you mean?"

"When I get out of this stupid hospital I'd like to go back and re-examine that oak tree, among other things."

"Why?"

"Molten ideas…"

"By the way," said Robert Powell, standing up. "There's a visitor outside for you."

"Oh?" I said, smiling and pretending not to know who he was talking about.

"Yes, I think you'd better come…" I summoned the nurse, who summoned the doctor, who gave me permission. I was forced against my will to wrap up warmly and then, since I still couldn't walk long distances self-propel a chair due to my broken arm, Robert wheeled me out into the hospital garden in a wheelchair. "Wait there," he told me, and disappeared round the corner of the building. A minute later Soul came hurtling into view with a volley of barks and launched herself at my chair. "Hello again," I said, stroking her neck and craning to keep my plastered arm away from her enthusiastic jumping up.

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_Sent today at 17:00:12 GMT (BST)_


	69. Sherlock's 14th Email Response to John

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FROM: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

TO: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

SUBJECT: Case Conclusion

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Two months later when all the police procedures had been finished and I had extricated myself from the hospital (this involved me putting on my 'normal' personality for evaluation from a psychologist), Soul and I returned to Redheath manor, as I had planned to. This was in part so I could examine the tree and surrounding area as I intended. Robert Powell also wanted me to show him where his friend had been found, and which parts of the field needed to be filled in or cordoned off in some way for the safety of any other guests. I had fully recovered, apart from the odd nightmare about Soul or the tunnels, occasional unexpected patches of weakness, my left arm still in plaster, and an infrequent, non-problematic cardiac arrythmia, which I still have today.

Robert wanted to put a plaque up to commemorate his friend. Soul snuffed around in the grass while I examined the tree with my magnifying lens. Layers of history, written into dead xylem cells that made up the bark of the tree. Besides the horse, there was also what looked like a vector drawing – the remnants of several arrows forming a triangle, and an inscription "Ruth and Patrick, 1840". The other scratchings were too vague to make out now, or covered in lichen, but it confirmed that these grounds had been well lived in, well loved and, to some extent in the Victorian era, revered by the house staff, adding weight to my theory. My most interesting discovery was found on one of the lower branched knots of the tree, unexpectedly as we turned to leave.

After some initial questions which I put nonchalantly to Robert's mother, I sought out his father, who was working in the garden. The father seemed surprised and a little flustered, but pleased to see me again. I told him, quite truthfully, that I had found some new history pertaining to the house, and that it involved the middle ages. He suggested that we go up to his study, which Robert and I did, while Soul waited outside. Unbeknownst to them, I had told her to guard the doorway and to 'hold on' to anyone who tried to escape prematurely. Once up there, he and his son took seats. I addressed the father. "You've been lying all through the investigation. Why didn't you tell the truth?"

He turned white. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied in a steady voice.

I brought my face close to his and spoke with deadly softness. "Listen to me, and listen carefully. Tell me the truth and I can help you. Play games with me and I'll crush you." He nodded, eyes wide with apprehension. "While examining the engravings I found white linen fibres caught on a lower branch of the oak tree. Robert Fielding wore nothing that was white and made of linen – I saw the body. Your wife has confirmed that you used to have white linen trousers, which you threw away on the day Robert Fielding vanished. She said they had been ripped, but that you often walked in the woods and snagged your clothes like this. She said they hadn't been ripped the day before, but you had been known to go for walks early in the morning down towards the woods. Maybe you were there at a different time from Robert Fielding, but I know a guilty person when I see them. You knew something about this before Robert went missing – that's why you flew into a rage when he investigated the song. You stiffened when I mentioned the song and were very quick to dismiss it as nothing the last time we met. And now you've lied to me. What really happened that day?" He paused, and I could see him slowly realise that he was beaten. Finally he slumped. "You're right. I was there. But I didn't mean to kill him – I honestly didn't!"

"Now I can see you're telling the truth."

"Yes – I swear to God!"

He cleared his throat. "I always wanted to find that shield. Or that's what I suspected the song referred to. So when it looked like Robert could beat me to it I…it was…something in me just went wild and I saw red. It seemed so unfair that he would have the glory of finding it and get all the money that would come from such a find, when I had been studying history for years in the hope of finding it. Anyway, by the time I went to bed it all seemed very petty, and I slept badly over it, waking just before four. I knew there was a good way to make it up to Robert, so I woke him and told him I knew he was looking for the shield, and that I was looking for it too. I explained my theory as to the song's meaning and the shield's location, and he agreed with me, so we stole downstairs and out just as the oak was beginning to catch the first glints of sun after the previous night's storm. He tried to climb through the barbed wire fence but got stuck, so we helped each other climb over the top. It's easier and less dangerous to climb over the top with another person you can lean on as you do it.

"When we got to the tree I showed him the engravings. Whilst I was examining them he wandered off and fell down the pothole like you did. Unlike you though he landed squarely, so apart from being bruised and shocked he was unhurt. I ran over, catching my trousers on the tree branch in the process and ripping them. He called up that he thought he'd found the way to the shield, and I told him to have a look down the tunnel and see if he could get to it. He asked for a torch. I had a pen torch in my coat pocket so I threw that down to him. He also asked if I had a map of the mines. It just happened that I had picked one up from the local museum the day before and had not yet taken it out of my coat pocket. I rolled it up and dropped it down, and he said he could use it to find a way out. He said to meet me at the mouth of the Castle Caves at noon and he if he had found the shield he would take me up the tunnel to it, and that if anything happened he would return to this entrance and climb out…"

"…He wouldn't have been able to do it with walls like that. Surely that was obvious!"

"I'll grant that it would have been impossible to climb in the condition you were in, but he was unhurt. Furthermore he climbed as a hobby, and there were hand holds and foot holds all the way up the wall. Anyway, by noon it had been raining heavily again for five hours straight, but again I've been known to walk in the rain. Nobody else goes out in it, so I find it more peaceful. I waited all afternoon at the caves, but he didn't turn up. I returned home, said nothing and hoped against hope that he would come back to the house, but he didn't.

"The police arrived and I lied my way through all of their questions. I'm sorry, but you wanted the truth. I was afraid. And now Robert tells me you found the body, and doubtless the papers will find out about the whole thing somehow, and I'll go to jail for not telling the truth!"

He broke down sobbing, which at that stage was a new experience for me. Robert put a hand on his father's shoulder in an awkward attempt to soothe him. I waited until he had regained control over himself. "What you did was very stupid," I told him.

"I know, I know," he whispered brokenly.

"Having said that, what I did probably wasn't a lot better. I'd have gone the same way if it hadn't been for Soul."

"Your dog?"

"Yes. And what you did was not malicious. You were afraid for your own safety and the safety of your artefacts – a fear which, although selfish, I wouldn't personally call evil."

"The artefacts don't matter now. They were just an attempt to find the shield."

"But they do matter!" Robert Powell's face and body were suddenly animated. "We could sell them to the museum or make our own exhibition here and open the house to visitors. That would secure the manor's future. After all, we can't keep cutting down the living space in favour of repairs forever."

"That's true," said his father, perking up.

"Before I go, could I see the lyrics one more time?" I asked, amiably. Robert obliged. "And the CD?" Robert fetched it. "And the tape?" He fetched that too. "And the record?" It was brought. It was raining again outside. I placed the tape on the floor, with the CD on top of it, and the record on top of that. "My first decisive action with a healed ankle," I commented, and brought it down hard on the pile a few times. There were satisfying sounds of destruction, and a yell from Robert and his father. I then quickly shredded the lyrics, wrenched open the study window and flung them out into the rain. When I turned back Robert's father was crouched on the floor, examining the pieces of tape, record and CD. After a good, hard stamping each of them had been rendered unplayable.

"You won't be needing these, I presume," I told them, gathering up the pieces and pocketing them. "It's been a real pleasure working with you – the greatest case to date for me. Good luck with your exhibition. Robert – thanks for everything you've done for Soul. Goodbye." With that I left, calling Soul to my heel as I did so.

I heard once more from Robert, who sent an email to me. He said he understood why I had destroyed the recordings and lyrics, and that a family song should be about something more worthy than a piece of metal, albeit a rather coveted one. He said the exhibition had opened with moderate success and that business was growing, and that with my permission and with name changes, he was sure the story of the song would make a very good video piece. Speaking of the song, it isn't completely gone. I still remember the tune and can play it for you on my violin sometime if you like. I also still have the broken bits of tape, CD and record if you're ever interested in seeing them. That is, unless Mrs Hudson has mistaken them for something worthless and cleared them away from my bedroom shelf.

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_Sent Today at 14:35:13 GMT (BST)_

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	70. Sherlock Email:  Holiday part 1

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: The Holiday

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Even after the plaster cast had been taken off my arm and I had completed the physiotherapy to regain full motion, I was unable to return to my pre-hospital state. I would break out in sweat and experience palpitations whenever I was away from Soul for any length of time. This was not something I seemed to be able to control and since it was not suitable for Soul to accompany me on every case it disrupted my ability to work objectively and without limitations. But even when I appeared fully functional during the day, the coal mine would haunt my dreams whenever I managed to catch some sleep. I would wake up shaking, then curse myself for dwelling on it. Soul could feel it too. She would paw my face and whine – I must have been whimpering or something in my sleep.

After two months of this stupidity I decided that something had to be done. I was already in danger of jeopardising my newly established and tentatively growing reputation amongst the official force as things were, given that I had failed to think objectively on several cases I had been called out on. So, reluctantly and feeling somewhat defeatist, I made the decision to take a break from detection for a week and find somewhere nice and secluded to forget about everything that had happened. Calling Soul over I spread my map on the floor. "Redheath is in the North of England," I told her. "Therefore we are going as far South as possible. Now what's this?" I'd spotted an odd little jutting out bit on the South coast. "A peninsula. Poldhu Bay. Interesting." I googled it. " 'An atmospheric, lonely place with a rich Neolithic history.' Well that's alright as long as there's nothing related to the middle ages. 'Holiday properties are few and far between but are cheap, comfortable and afford excellent views and walks.' That sounds acceptable."

After some brief investigations I looked up the number of a white stone holiday cottage right on the Cliffside. There would be wind and spray which would keep families and other frivolous holidaymakers away, especially as there was a sandy beach with several properties right next to it nearby. I dialled the number.

"Hello, Selkie Cottage. How may I help you?"

"Hello, I want to rent your holiday house for a week."

There was a short pause. "Which week?"

"Next week."

"Oh. Well, we don't generally take bookings at such short notice…but the next two weeks are empty. I think it's the rain."

"How much would a week cost?"

"Three hundred pounds."

"I have a dog."

"Pets are welcome."

"Excellent."

"So you do want to book? Or do you want some time to think on it?"

"No, I'm ready."

"Well that's…wonderful! Can I take your name, please?"

"Sherlock and Soul Holmes."

"I take it Soul is the dog?"

"Yes."

There was another, longer pause, punctuated by the sounds of scribbling and paper shuffling. "Right, I've booked you in. You'll need to organise your own food and toiletries, obviously, but we'll provide things like towels and bed linen, ok?"

"Yes."

"You can collect the key any time after ten on Monday. There's a fifty pound deposit but you get that back at the end of the week. Any questions?"

"One. There aren't any coal mines in the near vicinity, are there?"

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The week passed uneventfully in paperwork and minor armchair consultations. Early on Monday morning Soul and I boarded the train for Cornwall. We were both travelling lightly. I had a small rucksack with all our travelling things in. For Soul this was just a lead, a bowl and some food, and for me it was a few clothes and a sponge bag. The train wasn't busy, which meant we had a table to ourselves. Although I am not one for romanticising, it's worth noting that the scenery gets progressively wilder the nearer the coast one gets, perhaps because the strong wind and salt spray weather away any kind of man-made attempt at permanence. It was pleasant watching the quality of daylight change as the morning progressed. Soul, lying under the table, pawed at my foot. I waggled it and she pounced and nipped, but in a playful rather than aggressive manner. This became a subconscious game. I would try and keep my foot out of her clutches for as long as possible and she would try and pin it down and gnaw at it. Needless to say she won before long every time. For the second half of the journey I read a fascinating volume on the subject of plant poisons. It seemed to be written in the style of a bird-watching book, with illustrations of each plant as well as details about their history, uses, habitats, key features and effects on the body. The train pulled in at just after one, having stopped at every passing village on the way. Even then we had to change onto a single-carriage train which took us South and pulled into a coastal station. There was a sea mist, but it was dry and not overly cold. We disembarked. Soul shook herself and stretched.

It felt strange being away from the flat without a case to work on. I realised this meant I could, and should, eat. What was normal to have for lunch? I was used to either not eating or eating something cold out of a tin. Now though, I could choose whatever I liked. I wandered away from the station, into a high street which led onto a small marina. There didn't seem to be any food shops which struck me as rather silly, but when we walked along the marina my eye was drawn to a tourist shop which boasted ice cream. Ice cream was food and would fill us up. I bought two plain vanilla cones – one for me and one for Soul. I had been warned in her early days with me not to do this kind of thing, but then we were on what would most likely be the only holiday I would take during my career. We sat at a bench, ate our ice creams and hailed a cab. I gave the address and the cab woman shook her head at me. "To be honest, you're better off saving the money and going on foot. It's just two blocks at the traffic lights and then right and down to the end of the street." When we reached the address it turned out to be somebody's home. I rang the bell and listened to two dogs barking inside, and then a child of about five opened the door. "Are you in charge around here?" She nodded seriously. "Can I come in?" Another nod, and she moved aside, letting me slip past her into the house. Two border terriers began sniffing Soul appreciatively and she reciprocated. I caught a glimpse of a bathroom door with the lock set to red. "Mum's on the toilet," I was solemnly informed. "Are you here about renting the cottage?"

"Yes. Are you sure you're in charge?"

"Yup. You need to pay. It's three hundred pounds for the cottage and fifty pounds for the key." I wrote a cheque and handed it to her. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute later, dropping the key into my pocket. "There you are!" she said, beaming at her own efficiency. "Now you can go away."

"Alright then," I said, and departed as I heard the toilet flush.

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When we got to the cottage Soul gave way to what I can only describe as complete abandon. She smelt the sea, felt the gusty wind and saw the long grass waving, and took off at full speed in a wide, wild circle around me and the house, barking joyfully. Then she ran over to a clump of grass and flowers, stuck her head into the middle of it and sniffed round meticulously. I left her to her own devices and unlocked the cottage. It struck me that my five year old landlady hadn't given me the details I had been promised over the phone. Well, we could work them out between us. I plugged my laptop into the phone line and ordered a tesco shop. The cooker was a gas one and although I had some ropey knowledge of such appliances I really couldn't be bothered exploding anything this early on in the holiday. The cottage was smaller than it appeared in the photographs, but that actually made it fairly cosy.

I made some coffee (basic refreshments like that had been provided) and sat on the peeling white wooden picnic bench in the garden, watching Soul explore. Once we had both settled in we went for a walk together along the cliffs. I stood right on the edge and looked down. Because of the wind the sea was battering the rocks and seagulls were being blown off course. The danger of standing so close to the edge with such a strong wind gave me a thrill. Nobody else was outside, and we walked about a mile along the cliffs in either direction, enjoying the solitude and atmosphere of the place.

It was here that I made my retirement plan. Oh yes, you wouldn't believe me capable of dreaming of a time when I would not practice detection, would you? But as a scientist I know better than many that a bright brain burns out eventually. I probably won't always have the abilities that I do. Or at least, not sharply enough to use in my work. At some point I will start slowing down and missing things, and then it will be time to stop, rather than endanger somebody's life or liberty by making the wrong decisions. Maybe that's why my brain won't let me rest while my abilities are so acute. I determined that when the time came I would retire to a place like this – undisturbed, uncluttered, wild, dynamic from a historical and ecological point of view and yet oddly peaceful. To maintain order I would pursue some kind of full time hobby. Not gardening, as the pace would bore me and everyone lapses into it at some stage or other. Not music either – or at least, not communal music, except maybe the theatre. I associate music with brain work, and it is a very personal thing for me. I have my own way of appreciating it. Possibly something animal-based, providing it didn't take over my entire life and the animal in question could be observed in its natural state.

Ten minutes after our return to the cottage the tesco shop arrived, and I ate spaghetti in tomato sauce from a tin, followed by pineapple chunks. Then I sat down and wondered what else to do. Luckily someone came knocking on the door. Cautiously I opened it and was met by a man in his seventies with flyaway white hair, who, judging by the modern-cut, brand new suit trousers and shiny black shoes, was still employed. "Hope I'm not disturbing you. I walk over in this direction every day from my place – for exercise – and saw the house was taken. I thought I'd come and say hello."

The small cross I could see around his neck suggested (although did not absolutely confirm) that he was religious. He wore glasses which he looked over the top of, suggesting that he had been at his occupation long enough to strain the eyes and that it involved copious and regular reading. Add to that a voice which had a quality suggestive of habitual projection, the way his head protruded forward on his neck slightly and his shoulders were rolled forward, yet his back was straight, and I felt confident enough to greet him by his name and profession.

"Reverend Marshall, I presume?" I shook his astonished hand and explained my deductions as to his profession.

"But how did you know my name?" he asked, searching himself for any giveaway clues. "Bit of a cheat. The only parish house within walking distance is right next to the church, which has the name and number of its minister written up on the door."

"Well," he said, looking at me oddly as I gestured for him to come in, "You'd certainly put any private detective to shame with logic like that."

"That's what I hope to do," I told him, feeling pleased with myself, yet a little disappointed at his slightly unnerved manner. "I'm the world's only consulting detective."

"Aha. And what does that entail?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Well that certainly makes one feel safer."

There was a bit of a pause as we each waited for the other to break the silence. Then inspiration struck me.

"Coffee?"

"Lovely. Mint?"

"Thank you."

We sucked and sipped in comfortable silence, Soul stretched out on the rug between us. I decided that since I was not working I should try my hand at Idle Conversation. "Do many people come to the church?"

"Oh, not many newcomers but there are a few regulars that have been coming for years. In fact there's a family that would have torn itself to pieces long ago if they'd been left to themselves, no names mentioned. They've reached some sort of deadlock for the time being, I think, but it won't last. It never does. It's like remissions between flare ups."

"What caused it?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm not at all sure. I don't even know if they know themselves fully. It goes back a long time to some family business that was sold years back. I'd better not give too many details. But I think I'll be placating them until the cows come home." He laughed, stood up and stretched. "Anyway. I'd better be getting back. Thanks for the coffee, and feel free to pop round to the parish anytime. I know it's an old fashioned way of doing things, but it's a good way to meet people so I stand by it."

"Perfectly reasonable."

"I expect we'll bump into each other again sometime. How long are you staying?"

"A week."

"Ah then definitely. Well, goodbye."

He left me with an empty coffee cup in my hand and my hard drive updating, even as I knew I was there to relax.

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_Sent today at 02:40:12 GMT (BST)_


	71. Sherlock Email:  Holiday part 2

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From: **Sherlock Holmes s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: **John Watson j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Orchid House

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The sky cleared and the wind dropped as the night fell, allowing the stars to break through. I smoked intermittently as I lay on my back on the bench outside, knees propped up in like two letter As. I had never realised that the stars could be multi-layered. The brightest, most constant and obvious ones form the first layer and can be seen from almost anywhere. Behind that, smaller ones whose light shimmers and which disappear when one tries to look directly at them. And behind them, a white smoke of indistinguishably distant ones stretching in a band from one horizon diagonally across to the other. I was reminded of my work. The police see only the first layer, but I am privileged enough to be able to see them all.

The horizon was pink, not with the sun but with the light from the nearby village. Turning my head to one side I could make out lights shining from the parish and another cottage about a mile away. I thought about what it would be like if Soul and I could fly over the world, gently lifting the roofs off the buildings and peeking in on the people inside. Real life is so much more complex and unpredictable than any fiction we can ever dream up. Case in point, remember that murderer I got convicted? You let me take the case alone. Said it wasn't worth my time – a common domestic murder. You were right about the domestic murder bit, but not anything else. Turned out the murderer was provoked into killing his ninety-six year old, senile grandmother, because after every meal she took out her false teeth and attacked him with them. She thought he was a Nazi. It's those twists in cases that fascinate me.

Anyway, my brain was lying there on the bench, thinking of all the things that would be going on in the world. A dog barked somewhere, but it wasn't Soul's bark. Someone shouted. The waves broke against the rocks below the cliff. The wind rippled over the grass and my forehead, ruffling my hair a bit. Presently I returned inside, fed Soul and went upstairs to bed. Before I turned off the light I injected, and my mind swirled away into the fitful, restless unconsciousness of sleep.

I woke to Soul licking my face. This time it had been she who was trapped in the mines and me who was trying to get through an impassable rock fall to rescue her. I could hear her moving around behind the rock fall, but couldn't seem to shift any of the rubble. I kept knocking on the rocks to let her know I was there trying to help her get out. This role-reversal had occurred before, and I connected it to the part of me that had somehow become dependent on her. When I woke the knocking was still going on, because downstairs someone was banging hard on the front door. I donned a dressing gown, stumbled downstairs and opened the door. Reverend Marshall was standing on the step, eyes wild, holding his chest and wheezing hard. "Con-sulting det-ective, you said?"

"Yes, why?"

"Come," he said simply, and that was all I needed. I dashed upstairs, swapped my dressing gown for my coat, summoned Soul and hurried after him. "Where? What?" I demanded as followed him – he could move surprisingly fast.

"Orchid House. The big one. You can see it from here," he puffed out, pointing at the large house whose lights I had seen shining the previous night.

"What's happened?"

"Something really, really bad. The police are round, and a Mr Lestrade too."

"Oh, him," I muttered. "I know him. What's he doing up here?"

"They found them early in the morning. They said he was the best – the locals were stumped."

"Yes but found _what_?"

"We don't know exactly. I mean she's dead, but that's only half the story."

I met his eye, frowning. "What do you mean only half?"

He gazed back, eyes filled with significance and numerous, inexpressible fears. "I think you'd better see for yourself," he said.

As we reached the driveway we came upon a crowd of people, cordoned off by crime scene tape. Two young men were being escorted through the throngs to a waiting ambulance. The expressions on their faces were the most uncanny I have ever seen. The eyes were dead and haunted, the faces white and writhing, and both of them were moaning dismally. I turned questioningly to the Reverand. "Sweet Jesus," he whispered, his own face draining of colour.

They wouldn't let us past the crime tape at first, until I told them to tell Lestrade I was here. A young police officer with a nametag saying "Edwards" gave me a doubtful look, but dutifully went to tell him. Minutes later he returned, and _his _face was pale too. He jerked with his thumb, indicating for us to come in. We ducked under the tape. "In the sitting room," he whispered. I pushed past him, past the stony faced policewoman lining the hall and in through the door. The hairs on the back of Soul's neck bristled, and mine were quick to follow. There was something very oppressive about the atmosphere in the room – and the smell of death seemed to linger in a way I had rarely encountered before. Lestrade was there, but not as I knew him, and not as you will have seen him either. He was shaking violently, hunched in a chair, a mug of water gripped tightly between his hands. A policewoman who doubled as a nurse was telling him to take deep breaths. The window beside him was open. "A panic attack," she informed me.

This took me so much by surprise that I couldn't think of anything to say or do for a moment. You know as well as me how strong Lestrade's nerve is, and how determined he is once on a trail, no matter how bungling his detective skills are. He smiled weakly at me, looking a little sheepish. "Fancy seeing you here," he remarked.

"What the hell…?" I left the question open, gesturing mutely at him.

He shrugged. "That's how I feel too. I was examining her over there – " He waved a hand at the fireplace " – And suddenly it was just like I was completely gripped by fear. Thought I was going to black out, to tell you the truth. But Em made me put my head down and that gave me enough time to get to the window for fresh air. I'll be ok."

"You said 'her'. Who _is _she?"

"Brenda Tregellis. Sister of the two who were just taken out. It was a family reunion, and what a family!" He laughed shakily. "Apparently they all hate each other anyway. It was a disaster waiting to happen."

"Oh, so this is the fabled family." I crossed the room to the fireplace. "Don't…!" Lestrade started, but I fanned my coat. Apart from a slight smell of must, there didn't seem to be anything overly unusual about the fireplace. The ashes seemed perfectly normal, and there were no traces of violence. In fact the cards were still laid out on the coffee table, for a game of Poker. "Those other men," I said, "The ones that were taken away earlier. What was wrong with them?"

"Nobody knows," replied Lestrade (he was sounding stronger by the minute). "Apparently the third brother had been there the night before, heard a noise outside the window and went to investigate. Saw a figure leaving and followed it, but lost it about half a mile up the road, he said. When he came back the damage had already been done."

"Classic!" I exclaimed, rubbing my hands in appreciation. "I've always wanted to be involved in one of these!"

"One of what?"

"A true Agatha-Christie-style whodunit! Nobody leave the room until you give a watertight alibi, tell your story, examine the evidence, narrow it down! Brilliant!"

Lestrade looked at me with narrowed eyes. "You know, your attitude – it's not the most respectful in the world."

"Who cares about respectful? We've got ourselves a murder – and a good one too! Got to love the weird ones where once in a while someone shows a bit of creativity."

"Creativity?"

"Obviously! No marks, nothing out of place, no sign of violence or distress…beautiful!"

He wanted to rebuke me, but he bit back. "Anyway, I thought you were on holiday?"

"Oh we are."

"So this is my case."

"Oh please – you think I'd pass up an opportunity like this? You can have all the credit – all I want to do is examine the evidence!"

"All you want…" muttered Lestrade, and I thought, to my amazement, that I detected an element of grudging admiration in his tone. "You never could stop at that and we both know it!"

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_Sent today at 11:30:09 GMT (BST)_


	72. Sherlock Email:  Holiday part 3

I examined the rest of the room and found nothing untoward. I turned to Lestrade. "Have your lot been tampering with the evidence?"

He shook his head. "None of them would come in once I…got like this. Except Em, and then Edwards just now.

"Hmm…" I made my way to the door and examined it using my lens. It was made of wood, with a twisting metal handle. One side – the side facing into the room, was perfectly smooth, with no dents or grooves in it. Nobody had been struggling to get out then. But upon examining the other side there were two parallel, long, straight, vertical grooves running about thirty centimetres down the wood, and in the carpet there were four indents forming a square. I opened and shut the door. It opened in one direction – outwards towards the hall. The grooves and the direction of opening combined immediately suggested to me that something had been pushed hard up against the door to keep it shut, and that this had been to stop whoever, or whatever was in the room, getting out.

"I've never believed in a material manifestation of the devil before…" whispered the vicar, "But now…"

"No," I muttered.

"What?"

"It's something far more tangible than that."

There was a baffled pause, during which Soul and I left them and searched the house for different types of chair. The kitchen chair backs didn't match – the space between the grooves was wider than the backs of them. Going upstairs we found a study, but that only had a swivel chair in it, which had the wrong shape of back entirely. There was a bathroom and four bedrooms also, but none of these had chairs in them. However, glancing out the window I saw on the lawn, two large, battered, heavy wooden chairs and a table. The second chair arrested my attention, because leading from it, across the lawn, were traces of indents in the lawn, as though it had been dragged. This confirmed to me that it was heavy, and that it had been taken back to the house.

After two hours of apparent inactivity, the onlookers had got bored and gone home. A light mist was beginning to come in from the sea. It clung to my hands and coat, to the crime scene tape, the bushes and Soul's fur. Any footprints on the path within the taped-off area had been washed away by drizzle, and the onlookers had trampled all over the rest. A vague suspicion was beginning to form in my mind, but nothing concrete enough to share yet. I crossed the lawn to the chair, tugged it free and dragged it backwards a few feet. The furrow marks matched exactly. Then I measured the back. It was equal to 1.5 times the length of one of my forearms. I searched the lawn for further marks, and saw patches of depressed grass blades leading from the path round to the window. I told Soul to stay and moved forward slowly, checking the ground in front of me with my lens before putting a foot down. In the flower bed under the window I found what I was looking for. It was a startlingly clear, complete footprint, taken from a worn, rubber-ribbed shoe sole worn by someone who favoured the ball of their foot when walking (wear patterns), complete with the oval logo of the manufacturer (although I couldn't read the name).

When we got back to the cottage I measured the gap between the grooves on the living room door and, as I had expected, they matched perfectly. Lestrade had discharged the vicar after taking his name, with a view to further questioning. "Did you find anything?" he asked me.

"Yes. You need to get hold of the brother who found the victims and get him to come over. Get the vicar back too – he knew the family. And get rid of the crime tape around the scene – we've got all the evidence we need from it."

"What have you found?"

"It's murder, not the devil. But we knew that anyway. The killer crossed the lawn, took one of the outside chairs, dragged it inside and pushed it up against the door. There are no marks inside the house or on the path except the indents and the grooves on the door, so he or he must have carried it once he got to the front steps. It was most likely a he rather than a she because that chair is extremely heavy – I tried dragging it myself. Even a strong man would need to have a lot of pent up anger, adrenaline and premeditation to lift it and carry it through the house to the door. There was also a footprint in the flower bed outside the living room window – he'd been looking in."

Lestrade whistled. "I dunno how you do it," he admitted. "I'll check the house for a match."

"Good."

"What about the vicar and other brother?"

"I'll deal with them. "

"Going to question them? I can do that."

"No, just give them coffee and nuts or something, make small talk and turf them out when I tell you to. Don't mention the case unless one of them does, and even then be vague."

Lestrade was losing patience. "Look, I'm letting you in here and doing what you say, but if you're just gonna mess me around – "

" – Do you always get like this when you don't understand what's going on?"

His jaw set. "No."

"Then don't do it now," I told him sharply, and he had no answer.

I gathered up a bunch of newspapers from the fireplace and brought them into the hall. Then I peeled the doormat off the floor and stashed it away in the stair cupboard. In its place I spread out a couple of sheets of newspaper. To avoid arousing suspicion I walked around briefly outside with Soul, then across the sheets, leading her over them too so they already had some footmarks and pawprints on them. Then we stood by the door to welcome the 'guests'.

The first to arrive was the brother. His head was bowed and his shoulders hunched. He nodded in response to my greeting, and my explanation that the doormat was being held for forensic evidence. Once he had crossed the hall and closed the door of the living room behind him, I crouched down to take a look at his footprint. It wasn't a match – circles rather than swirls – and a square logo. The vicar arrived next, having got halfway home. He apologised repeatedly and redundantly for leaving too soon, and I had to tell him twice to go on through. I examined his footprints and gave a slow smile. I hadn't expected to find my first answer so easily. Reverend or not, his were a perfect match.


	73. Sherlock Email:  Holiday part 4

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: The Stupid Arrest

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I poked my head round the door. The brother was talking to the reverend, who was nodding, looking sympathetic. Lestrade was watching them both warily, taking notes every now and then. I took Lestrade aside. "Distract them," I told him. "We need to question the reverend. They're his shoes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Without another word Lestrade barged back into the living room. "Reverend Marshall," he announced grandly. The reverend's head jerked up. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Brenda Tregellis, and of the attempted murders of Thomas and Jordan Tregellis. You do not have to answer any questions, but it may harm your defence if you do not disclose information which you later come to rely on in court."

Since then, I've taken care to be selective about what deductions I share with people (especially Lestrade), and the time at which I share them. The reverend's face registered profound shock, and I thought for a moment that he might faint. "No…" he protested, with a tremor in his voice. "No, I didn't kill them. Please believe me!"

"Your footprints were found at the scene of the crime," explained Lestrade. "Shall we do this quietly?" The reverend, sensing the implied threat and seeing that there was no point in arguing, stood up, supported under the arm by Lestrade, and was led out to the waiting police car. As he passed me I whispered "Sorry about that," in his ear. He nodded very slightly in response.

I was deep in thought as Soul and I left Orchid House. It's not often that I go by intuition alone, but I just KNEW the vicar was innocent. A man planning a murder doesn't come in with muddy shoes and have coffee with a consulting detective the day before carrying out his dirty work. Add to that the expression on his face when accused. Blank horror coupled with incredulity, as though we had to be mad to suspect him. To be fair, on that evidence alone, a person _would _have to be mad to suspect him, but once Lestrade gets an idea into his head it's very hard to make him change his mind, as you know. Besides, he has the power to arrest anyone who comes under suspicion in an investigation. But although officially he is required to carry out specific actions in response to new pieces of evidence, arresting someone because they were wearing the same shoes as were found at the crime scene is like killing a fly with a sledgehammer, and is the least likely way to make them tell you the truth.

Soul and I were now walking along the cliff path. The clouds were beginning to dissipate. We were about halfway back to the cottage (I needed some peace, quiet and nicotine in order to have a think about the case so far), when a middle-aged man with a stubbly beard and prematurely greying hair bumped into me. Soul – who was circling me as we walked – almost fell off the cliff edge as a result. I grabbed her collar with one hand and the arm of the stranger with the other. He tried to shake me off, but I held on, and it was then my brain registered that he was crying hard. This surprised me enough to make me let go, and he continued on, stumbling often.

Curiosity aroused, we followed at a safe distance and noticed, with mounting excitement, that he was heading to Orchid cottage. Soul and I crouched behind a rhododendron bush and watched. He was greeted at the door by the surviving brother, Joseph. "Leon!" he exclaimed.

"Where is she?" Leon demanded.

"They've taken her away," he told the newcomer.

"Fuck!" Leon kicked a plant pot over. "Where did they take her?"

"I don't know. Away. Like my brothers, probably." I noticed how much stronger Joseph Tregellis's voice was now, and he seemed to be unusually cool-headed for someone so recently bereaved. He was also holding himself straighter, with his head raised instead of bowed.

"I _need _to see her!"

"Well what can I do about it? Now, if you don't mind, I have to fill out some forms on behalf of my brothers."

"Putting them away are you?"

"Shut up."

"Afraid they'll talk, are we? I know you, Joseph. You've never done anything that didn't serve yourself in some way. You greedy bastard."

"I said shut up. Talk like that and you'll be certifiable too. I've been officially cleared."

Officially_,_ I thought to myself, But not_ un-_officially.

"Anyway, it's my house now and I don't want you in its grounds," Joseph was continuing. "I mean it. I'll call the police. I have a direct number."

Leon looked as if he was about to lash out, then seemed to change his mind. Meekly, or perhaps brokenly, he wandered away. After checking the coast was clear, Soul and I stood up. I texted Lestrade: "Find out about someone called Leon – he's connected with the brothers and a 'she' who was taken away." Then we made our way back to the cottage.

I smoked ten cigarettes and gave myself an injection. Lestrade emailed me the autopsy report for Brenda Tregellis: No broken bones or bleeding, internally or externally. No signs of suffocation. Airways clear but extensive damage to the lung tissue, probably leading to fatal hypoxia. No signs of sexual assault. Abnormally high levels of cortisol and adrenaline in the blood – the hormones of fight-or-flight.

Thomas and Jordan Tregellis were still incoherent and undergoing tests, but MRIs showed abnormal activation of their amygdalas (fear centres of the brain), pineal glands (associated with feelings/intuitions), hypothalamuses and pituitary glands (fight or flight activators), and severe damage to the connections between the left and right cerebral hemispheres – uncoupling their logical perception from their subjective. Their dopaminergic pathways were also behaving abnormally. They had minimal, but detectable, malfunction of their lungs.

Sometime later I felt frazzled and stuck. These findings were interesting, and consistent with the terrified expressions and the ravings the brothers had displayed, as well as my hypothesis of toxic inhalation. They also fitted the fact that the effect of whatever had been inhaled diminished with distance (assuming it had been thrown in the fire, given the outcome for each of the intended victims), and time, since Lestrade had experienced relatively mild adverse effects. But a chemical that could cause these effects – _all _these effects? That eluded me.

I was pulled back into the here and now by a series of crashes downstairs. I jumped up, ran into the kitchen and found Soul perched on the worktop with a dead rat between her paws. Pots and pans were strewn all over the floor, a plate was smashed and a chair had been tipped over. "NO!" I told her in a frightening voice, and swept her off the worktop with my arm. She fell with a thump and crawled away into a corner to sulk. I picked up the dead rat, marched outside into the night and threw the remains of the rat over the edge of the cliff.

There was no point in remaining cross with Soul. I had said and done what I needed to, she had learned her lesson, and there was work to be done. "Come on," I told her, holding the door open. "We're going to investigate the parish."

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_Sent today at 13:09:33 GMT (BST)_


	74. Sherlock Email: Holiday part 5

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From: **Sherlock Holmes s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: **John Watson j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: More Investigations

CC:

BCC:

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The parish door was open. Not only open, it was smashed around the lock by the rear end of a hammer. That struck me as a bit odd. The hammer in question had been carelessly flung into the grass. I made a mental note of this, and we entered the hallway. Both doors here were open too, and there were mud stains on the stairs. Somebody unfamilliar with the layout of the parish had forced their way in and trampled through the rooms.

We investigated the kitchen first. The drawers and cupboards were all open and so was the washing machine. The living room had been dessimated. All the books had been pulled out of the shelves, the cushions of the armchair and sofa had been thrown on the floor, the sofa and chair had been tipped over, and the cabinets had been emptied. These findings gave me food for thought. It was definitely not the vicar who had done this – his age and the squares of dust under the furniture showed that he was physically unable to move them. Furthermore if he had been looking for something he'd have been more strategic, given that he knew the layout of his own home.

Next we made our way upstairs. There were footprints going both up and down the stairs, but the most recent, overlaying footprints, were the ones going down. Unlike downstairs, the doors were closed and the mud marks on the carpet indicated that only one room had been entered – the spare room. So I'd been wrong (shock and horror) – the person was familiar with the parish layout, and they knew that whatever it was they were looking for had been taken into the house by the person staying in the spare room. The room itself was very bare, and a holdall sat by the door, packed and zipped up. I opened it, and men's pyjamas and a sponge bag were visible. Someone who was currently living in the room would probably leave the holdall unzipped for easy access to their overnight things, or have it unpacked. Therefore either they had just arrived or they were just about to depart. The bin was full, indicating that the latter was the case.

I dug in the bin and pulled out a crumpled envelope, with a hand written address on it: Mr Joseph Tregellis. No surprises there. So, he had been staying with the Reverend, and was going to leave any day now, and was planning, at any rate, to move into the family house if his own earlier statement to Leon was true. I upended the bin and searched through all the rubbish, looking for any traces of the accompanying letter. There were several empty crisp packets which Soul stuck her nose into looking for crumbs, an empty tobacco pouch from a self-roll cigarette pack, a few spent matches and some more envelopes. These not only had the same type-face, but the same printer had been used to print the letters. On each address I could make out the smudgy 'e', the clipped tail of the 'a', and the slightly slanting 'o'. I checked the back of the envelope, and found a stamp clearly present: "Barrett and Galloway' – a solicitor's. The date of posting was also visible on the postmark. I arranged the letters in order and they dated back at least six months.

Having packed the rest of the rubbish back into the bin I straightened up. In the process my eye fell upon the exposed bottom of an open drawer in a cabinet adjacent to the window. It was unmarked except for one small patch which sported two overlapping red, rust-like, circular stains. The red substance came away easily when I touched it. The bottom of the drawer was almost completely dust-free, despite the layer of dust that had settled on the top of the cabinet. Since dust takes only a few hours of stillness to settle, and literally only a few specks had collected in the drawer, I concluded that the thing which had left the mark had been taken only a few hours ago at the very most.

By this time it was beginning to get light, and doubtless Lestrade and his team would want to investigate the living quarters of their precious captive. Not wanting to deprive the official force of that pleasure, and having gleaned a wealth of useful information, I called Soul to heel, and we retreated downstairs and out the front door.

My plan had been to return to the cottage, but as I pushed open the front door, I saw Soul sniffing around the doorframe. Her ears pricked up, and then a gleam came into her eyes. She had locked onto a scent. I registered the look of intense concentration on her face – an expression I knew well. Soul began to trot, pausing often at first and then with growing confidence, down the garden path and out through the garden gate. She sped up and I had to jog after her. She was running towards the cliff, and along the cliff path, nose to the ground. It soon became all I could do to keep up with her as she sped along. I felt lactic acid begin to pump through my knees and thighs, and I could hear my heart banging in my ears. I already had a suspicion as to where she was leading me, and the excitement and adrenaline was life-affirming.

The door to Orchid house was locked of course, but in my pocket I keep a little gadget for manipulating locks. Soul was scratching at the door, and after a few minutes of wrenching and picking, I managed to get it open. Up the stairs we went and along the landing, through a reed-curtain into a bedroom with a South-facing window, covered with a sparkly pink net drape. Worn, cuddly toys lined the windowsill, and a vase of lilies, now dead and dried out, stood on the bedside table. On the bed lay Joseph Tregellis.

He was clad only in pants and a T-shirt. His hands and ankles were dark red with constriction, because they had been bound with some of Brenda's extensive collection of bandanas. He was blindfolded with a pair of her tights. His mouth was gagged with a pink pillowcase which sported silver, sparkly butterflies. His limbs were contorted and rigid, and his skin was waxen.

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"Any ideas?" Lestrade commented, when he arrived at the scene.

"Several," I replied. "It's murder, obviously. Most likely by a man, given the strength of the knots and the fact that all of Brenda's surviving family and close contacts were male." I began to examine Joseph Tregellis's airways. "Interesting that the killer seemed to come unprepared, isn't it?" I commented. "I mean, there's nothing used here that was brought along – all the bindings and the gag and blindfold are things that belonged to Brenda."

"That's not a coincidence, is it?"

"No."

"Thought not."

"Of course you did."

"So what do you think?"

Lestrade reached out to touch the corpse's face, but I smacked his hand away and he drew back obediently. "I don't think anything," I told him, examining the lips and nostrils with my magnifying glass. I noted that the hairs that lined the nose appeared to have been eaten away. I stiffened. "Open the window," I said sharply. Lestrade crossed the room and flung the window open. "Good," I commented, discreetly letting out a sigh of relief.

Lestrade was about to make another comment when at that moment we were interrupted by a strangled wailing noise, followed by a thump. I turned, and my blood ran cold. Soul had collapsed and was lying by the dresser, struggling to get up, eyes wide and tongue lolling out. Without a second thought I hurled myself across the room, caught her up in my arms and stumbled down the stairs and out of the house. I dumped her on the grass outside. "Soul? Can you hear me? Please be alright…please be alright…" There have been very few times in my life where logic has completely left me. Even I the coal mine, being consumed by sepsis, part of me knew exactly what was going on and what I must do to survive. Now though, my mind was full of white fog and my hands shook as I loosened Soul's collar and opened her mouth to check down her throat for obstructions. After a few minutes she began to respond to my voice, and in my profound relief I stroked her and let my forehead sink forward into her fur. Then I looked up and saw Lestrade staring at me with touched astonishment.

Soul got to her feet groggily, shook herself, and licked the sweat off my hands. "Feeling better?" I asked her. She circled round me, eyes growing clearer by the second. "Keep her here," I told Lestrade, who was still too surprised to know quite what to do. With that I ascended the stairs back to the bedroom.

Given my hypothesis I started my examination in the corner of the room where Soul had collapsed, looking for any means by which a poisonous substance could be transformed from a solid or liquid into a gas. There were no candles. It didn't even have an electric heater which, I reasoned, must be because it was directly above the living room with its open fire. It wasn't until I searched the electric sockets that I found a plug-in vapouriser. The switch was still on. I removed my scarf and tied it around my nose and mouth, before approaching with caution and turning it off. Then I pulled it from the wall and unscrewed the top. It was still warm, so I held it at arms' length. Most of the substance had already been burned off, but at the very bottom there were traces of a reddish powder that exactly matched the stain I had seen in the drawer at the parish. I felt in my pocket and found one of the solicitors' envelopes, into which I deposited a small pinch of powder. Then I re-fastened the lid and plugged it back in for Lestrade to find later.

"You can let the Reverend go," I told him. "He didn't do it."

"Well I can't let him go just like that," Lestrade retorted, as if I was mad. "He's got valuable information. Anyway, how do you know he didn't do it?"

"Because I know Joseph Tregellis was staying at the parish and took the vicar's shoes in order to cover his tracks when he murdered Brenda Tregellis."

Lestrade gave me a very searching look. "Don't ask me who killed Joseph yet," I added hastily, "Or how. I don't know yet. But I will by the end of the day." And with that, I left him to make his blunders in peace.

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_Sent today at 00:00:17 GMT (BST)_


	75. Sherlock Email:  Holiday part 6

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: The Stupidest Thing I Have Ever Done

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"We know people and dogs can recover from the initial effects of the poison," I summarised to Soul as we walked home, keeping a look-out for careless passers-by on the cliff path. "We also know that the effects increase with time and proximity." We walked in silence for a while, and then, on a whim, I called a cab to meet us at the cottage and take us to the village, where I visited an electrics shop. I couldn't take Soul in with me as the shop didn't allow dogs in case they broke the displays. I didn't have a lead, so I made her lie down outside the shop and quickly bought the first oil burner I could see. It was not ideal, as it wasn't the same model as the one in the bedroom, but it would do. Thankfully, Soul was still where I had left her when I came out, and we returned to the cottage.

I shut Soul out of the house and opened the living room window wide, ready to perform my experiment. Then I dragged a chair and coffee table over to the window and sat down, placing my phone beside me for easy access, in case I needed to dial an ambulance. I tipped my powder sample into the oil burner and lit it with my cigarette lighter. Then I sat back in my chair and waited. I was confident that if I had been able to maintain some level of rationality in the face of septic hallucinations, I could keep my head through the effects of this drug too, or at least enough to dial 999 if need be.

At first I did manage to keep my wits about me as I'd predicted. My body seemed to sink through the chair into a sea of sponge and the walls became fluid. Then very quickly the trip began to get out of control and I could actually feel my rational mind shutting down, a little at a time. The ceiling was morphing into a monstrous cloud, behind which lurked all the horrific made-up fears I thought I had deleted from my brain forever. And then it was a face – a terrible face, and a face I recognised, which made it even more frightening. I couldn't put a name to it, but I knew it was as familiar to me as my skin, or the hair on my head. It leered at me and suddenly its mouth opened and black blood gushed out all over the floor, from which crawled putrid hoards of decaying, stringy white worms, up my feet and legs, onto my face and packed into my nose and mouth. And violin music twisted into a terrible buzzing, caterwauling, like a hundred people being slowly burned to death…

Then I felt teeth breaking the skin on my wrist, and a piercing tug, which was painful enough to give me a brief glimpse into semi-reality. Not enough to re-awaken my objective mind, but enough to get me up on my feet, and staggering towards the front door. I fumbled with it, leaning forward heavily as it opened outwards, and I flopped onto the lawn outside. For a few minutes I lay there, gasping and drawing the stinging cold air into my lungs in gulps. I became aware of Soul licking my face, lifted one arm and draped it over her. "That," I said thickly, "Was the stupidest thing I've ever done." She pushed her nose into my cheek. "Thank you," I told her, with the worms momentarily returning to clog my throat.

After hurling the oil-burner over the edge of the cliff – much to Soul's delight – I gave the cottage a thorough airing out. I was now in no doubt whatsoever as to how Brenda and Joseph had died. The only things left to confirm were the identity of the powder owner, and why the people had been killed.

As soon as it was safe to go back into the house I plugged my laptop into the phone line and began my research. First I looked up Barrett and Galloway. It was a solicitor's firm in St Ives. I dug in my coat pockets again and was lucky enough to discover one of Lestrade's nametags which I must have pickpocketed from him the last time we worked together. It was the last one, and pure luck that it was still there. One cab-ride later we entered the reception of Barrett and Galloway solicitor's firm. It was extremely clean, and the chairs were upholstered in slippery brown leather. A bowl of flowers and a plate of mints sat side by side on a coffee table, along with a selection of fashion magazines. There was a potted yukka plant in one corner. Mozart was playing quietly over a speaker above me and to my right.

"Can I help you?" A young, un-married receptionist of about twenty-one asked us, in a Scottish accent. "Yes, I'm detective Lestrade of Scotland Yard." I showed my identity card. "I'm here as part of an investigation into the murder of one of your clients, Mr Joseph Tregellis."

A normal person would not have noticed it, but I saw dismay register briefly on the receptionist's face. "Just wait a moment please," she told me, picking up the phone and dialling. "Hello, could you bring me the Sally O'Sullivan file?" I kept a straight face, having learned the meaning of that phrase from a lawyer contact of mine. Presently a middle aged man with a moustache and brilliant blue eyes joined the receptionist behind the desk. "Thank you, Cathy," he said in a deep, soft voice. He reached out and gave my hand a firm shake. "Can I help you?" he enquired.

"I hope so," I said, and held up Lestrade's tag. "I'm here to investigate the murder of Joseph Tregellis. I wanted to ask his solicitor some questions."

"Yes, I had heard about that," he replied without emotion. "Obviously we have a strict policy of client confidentiality, even in the event of death, but given the circumstances I will do my best to help you. I can't guarantee that I'll be able to answer everything, but you'd better come in and I'll see what I can do."

I followed the man through to his office, where I found from his notice board that his name was Shaun Williams. "I was Mr Tregellis's solicitor," he said.

"Do you recognise these?" I asked, handing him a couple of the envelopes I had found at the parish. He took them in his long, thin fingers and glanced over them. "Yes, these were sent from my office."

"May I check the printer?" I asked, and without waiting for a reply, I crossed the room and picked up a document from the machine. The 'e,' 'o' and 'a' matched those on the address. I turned back to Shaun Williams. "The contents of these letters may be vital to understanding the motive for your client's murder," I told him. "Think you could help me with any information?"

"I would prefer to keep the specifics confidential," he replied calmly. "But I can tell you that approached me because he believed he had been unfairly denied a share in profits from the sale of a family business."

"All I needed to know," I said, standing up and returning his earlier handshake. "Thank you very much for your time."

-/-/-/-/-

Upon returning to the cottage, I fetched a pot of coffee, wrote up my visit and what it had yielded, and added the information to my other notes. I was at the most frustrating point of any case I take. I had almost all the threats in my hands, but the most vital points were still missing. No matter how many times I searched on the internet for the appearance, properties and symptoms of the powder, and no matter what search engine or scientific database I used, I could not find any information on it. Without the knowledge of Joseph Tregellis, and without access to the minister, and without any clues about the identity of the powder, I had no way of tracing its origin or who else could have known about its properties besides Joseph.

However, as events turned out I did not need this information, because just after midnight there was a soft knock at the door of my cottage. I opened the door, and the figure of Leon confronted me. His eyes were filled with sorrow, and his manner was submissive. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "I've come to turn myself in," he said simply.

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_Sent today at 07:14:47 GMT (BST)_


	76. Interlude: Riots, Terrorism & Hurricanes

**ON RIOTS, TERRORISM AND HURRICANES**

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

It's been a while since I last blogged. Things have been a bit surreal round here for the past month. Several people have asked Sherlock and me how we faired during the riots. Well, we were fine, but Mrs Hudson wasn't. She's not hurt, thank God, but it was a very close call. On the evening of August the 8th I was having dinner, and Sherlock, having stubbornly refused to eat the pasta dish I'd put on his desk for him, was clacking away on his laptop. I think he mentioned something about reagent concentrations for yet another experiment involving sulphur.

Suddenly there was a massive commotion of shouting outside, followed by a crash. I might have blinked for a second, but it's not unheard of for fights to break out in the street here. After all, it's London and even though Baker Street is a relatively good area, it has its fair share of delinquents. Besides, there'd been a bit more commotion that usual over the past couple of days, so we were somewhat habituated to it. Anyway, we didn't pay that much attention or go to the window to see what was going on. Until the lights went out, that is.

"What's that?" I said.

Sherlock didn't even look up. "Probably a power fault further up the line," he replied. "I'm running the laptop on its battery now." I nodded, trusting his judgement, and wondered what to do with myself. It was then that I caught the first whiffs of smoke.

"Smell that?" I asked him.

"What, the smoke?"

"Yeah."

He got up impatiently and flung the window open. Next minute he was craning down, his body completely still. "John?" he said, in a tone of level headed incredulity. But whatever else he had planned to say was cut off as his body erupted into a fit of convulsive coughing. I raced across the room, grabbed his shoulders (he wriggled away immediately) and peered out. A hot, dense cloud of black smoke from directly below hit me square in the face. I staggered, eyes watering, throat searing, lungs screaming (metaphorically speaking). "Bloody hell," I remarked, regaining composure.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock gasped, and then he did something that I will remember for the rest of my days, and which made me love him. He ran to the kitchen, wet a dishtowel, held it over his nose and mouth and dashed downstairs. I followed him, hitting 999 on my phone. The smoke on the stairs was becoming thicker by the minute, and because our eyes were watering we had to use the bannister to navigate, me all the while describing the situation to the person on the end of the emergency line. We didn't see the figure scuttling up to us until she loomed out of the smog, straight into Sherlock's arms. "Ok?" Sherlock enquired, a little muffled by smoke and the dishtowel. She patted his arm silently in reassurance and together, all holding onto each other, we fumbled for the door, spilling out into the street and filling our lungs with sharp, clean air.

Mrs Hudson hugged Sherlock to her in profound relief. He didn't shake her off. "Oh…oh my dear…When I realised …Are you alright?"

"We're fine."

"You're sure?"

"Well…a bit smoky," he replied, one corner of his mouth turning up a little.

"Thank heavens!" she exclaimed and briefly rested her head on his shoulder in relief. For a moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen.

"What about you?" I asked Mrs Hudson, as instinct took over and I swept a doctor's eye over her. She was quick to brush me off. A little too quick. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm a toughie…nothing I can't handle." But her hands were cold and shaky as she spoke. Ignoring her protestations I took my jumper off and insisted she put it on.

Now we took a good look at the flickering window of 221C, and the clouds of smoke streaming up out of it. The window was smashed, and the area around the bottom of it was alight too.

"Arson," Sherlock stated, his eyes never wavering from the flames.

"What can they possibly want from us?" Mrs Hudson wondered aloud.

"They're just being anarchic," I replied quietly, as we all looked at the burning room.

It was round about then that the fire service arrived. A gigantic, chunky fireman stepped down from the engine and approached us. "Anyone in there?" We all shook our heads. "Pets?"

"No…" Sherlock blanched suddenly. "My chemistry equipment's up there! And my case notes! And my laptop! And my violin!" He started to run forward but was caught under the arms by two firemen. Meanwhile others started dousing the flames. Sherlock struggled and drew blood by making a long scratch down the cheek of one of the firemen. "Let me go! You don't understand – if I lose those I have to pretend to be a normal person! No no no no no no no…." Never have I seen him in such an uninhibited panic. I think it was because this was affecting him personally, thus bringing down the guard. Right then he was no longer a cold, emotionless machine…he was Sherlock M. Holmes, thirty five years old and a chemistry and music enthusiast, with all that he owned and all that he valued in the world in jeopardy.

"Hey stop, stop sonny, relax…" said the big fireman, surprising Sherlock into silence."The fire's almost out now."

Indeed it was. The smoke had mostly dissipated apart from a feeble trickle and a few puffs of steam. After five more minutes, during which we all stared, hypnotised, at the jets of water being directed onto the fire, one of the firemen came back to report that it had been extinguished. "You can stay with us," I assured Mrs Hudson.

"No chance," cut in a fireman. "Infrastructure's ruined. It could come down at any moment."

"Can't you do something?" Sherlock enquired, childishly.

"Well yeah. It should be ok with a bit of luck, but it'll need a good few weeks' work before it's safe to go back into it."

"Don't worry dears, it's all insured. I'll put us up somewhere. A nice hotel – I know a place across town."

Sherlock most certainly did look worried. As for me, the situation was just beginning to sink in as well. We were stranded with nothing but the clothes we wore and a promise of food and a bed.

So that's where we've been – in the Olive Leaf Hotel. Sherlock disappeared for the majority of each day, and I spent most of my time on walks, at work, reading or over at Sarah's. Sherlock was quite a hit at the hotel actually. He made a passing comment to one of the breakfast staff about their mother's illness, and a fellow lodger asked him how he'd known. Of course, Sherlock explained that he'd seen the faded initials "C.C.H. room 4.2" on the back of the waiter's left hand, and a slightly glowing, phone shaped bulge in one of his trouser pockets.

The fact that this man was allowed to have his phone on and with him while working in a top class hotel told him that it was something really important. The dark circles under the waiter's eyes and the nails bitten right down to the quick, coupled with a rumpled collar and untidy shave indicated a sleepless night and a disorganised morning, probably as a result of acute stress. The initials and numbers, Sherlock explained, most likely referred to a ward in Charing Cross Hospital. He knew from a past case that the numbers referred to a women's geriatric ward. The stress and the ward details were most likely connected, pointing to a woman critically ill in hospital, to whom the waiter was particularly close. The waiter's age indicated that he was unlikely to have living grandparents, therefore the most likely option after that, given the strain he was under, was another close family member a generation up – such as his mother.

It was a shoddy, uncertain piece of detection by Sherlock's standards, but he handled it sensitively enough at the time, capturing the interest of the other diners. By the end of the meal people were coming up to him and asking him to deduce things about them. He happily obliged – it gave him some semblance of normality that he badly needed, stuck away from the possessions and job that gave him his sense of self. In fact, it was through the resulting grape vine that the university heard about him…but that's another story. The point is, we're back in Baker Street again now. Our flat was unchanged when we returned, if a little dusty. But 221C was totally shelled. Not that there was much in it to begin with, thankfully. But the walls are now grey and bare, and the carpet had to be taken out too. Maybe when it's done up we'll find ourselves with new neighbours. I wonder how long they'll stay?

-/-/-

And so it's now been ten years since the attacks on the World Trade Centre, and a hurricane is heading our way, apparently. It's strange. Not just that it happened ten years ago, but that ten years of life have passed since then, and I was there, and I was an adult, and I remember all of it. Back then I was in the last year of my surgeon's course, and was still living with my dad. Harry had moved out from Mum's house by then and was swinging violently between highs and depression. My parents chose which of us they wanted when they split, back when I was eleven and Harry was sixteen. We didn't have a say. Harry and I got to see each other one day every two weeks, and at Christmastime. Dad's house was only a place for me to sleep during my course, since I needed cheap accommodation. I never got the impression he particularly wanted me there. Not that he ever did anything bad to me – we just sort of ignored each other. A smouldering, kindling ignore that would gradually grow over the next couple of years until I went off and joined the army. But enough of all that.

I was standing on the stairs of the university building that morning when my friend Alan came past me. "Did you hear the news?"

"No…?"

"There's been a plane crash in America." With that he was gone to his lecture.

Later that morning I managed to get on a computer and saw the image of the plane going into the South tower, and the towers collapsing. And that now-familiar feeling of utter helplessness hit me. I needed to call someone. So I called my dad.

"Did you see the news?"

"Yeah."

"Awful, isn't it?"

"Suppose so."

I saw red. "How can you watch that and just say you _suppose _it's awful?"

"We're British. That's in America. It doesn't affect us. Anyway, what was it you were calling about?"

I hung up the phone and paced around, up and down, up and down, grinding my teeth. I had a much worse temper in those days, until I realised it was getting silly and took an anger control course. Not only did I want to smash a fist through something, preferably my father's face, but I felt seethingly frustrated at my own predicament. Here I was, a competent, if new and technically unqualified surgeon. And over there thousands of people were dying, and there was an ocean separating us, and a nationality too it seemed. I've never had much of a concept of patriotism, and I seem to have been born without the ability to filter out the emotional effects of worldwide events over which I have little or no control. It's both a blessing and a curse. People are people, no matter who or where they are. They all need food, water, warmth, air, love and a reason for living; and they are all equally breakable. It shouldn't matter whether the country is governed by a monarch, prime minister or president. I think if I have done any good by my fighting it was driven by this awareness and philosophy borne of it. But at the same time I end up suffering acute guilt at every major disaster as a result of it. It's very draining, and yet I can't let it go…I don't _want _to let it go, because to let go of it would be to let go of compassion.

The chilling thing is that not only was that disaster man-made , but it was made for the sole purpose of being such a disaster, and it was carried out with unprecedented success. I can best explain what I mean by comparing it to, say, Chernoble and Pearl Harbour. Chernoble was an accident. Granted it may have been aggravated by human stupidity and quite possibly negligence too, and the after-effects certainly brought out man's shameful discrimination between those in authority and those of politically little consequence. But it was still an accident. Humanity is stupid and I don't bear a grudge against it for that, because I know that I am no better than anyone else. Pearl Harbour, on the other hand, was intentional. But utterly tragic as those losses were – civilian, soldier, whatever – the Pearl Harbour bombings were motivated by politics, as part of World War Two. The attacks on the World Trade Centre were baseless, purposeful, and an act of hate intended to crush defenceless people who were in no way connected to the terrorists, were not soldiers and had no warnings that they should have picked up on, and no way of fighting back…simply for the sake of crushing them.

I think up until that day, I had rather high and mighty views about humans. They may be stupid, I thought, but they would never kill each other for no reason. Maybe it was denial more than conviction actually, because I think I was pretending rather than really, passionately believing it. It's hard to tell. But after the attacks I couldn't pretend any more. For the next few months it was pity for humanity, rather than faith in it, that stopped me becoming completely disillusioned. And then slowly I started to come round. If human beings can hate each other and want to crush each other for the sake of it without even knowing anything about each other – I reasoned – then surely it's also possible for us to love and want to help each other for the sake of it too, without having to know one other.

I think that was when I knew I had to find a way of helping as many people as I could, with all I had, in an up-front, practical way. And that's when I decided to join the army. With army and surgeon skills combined, I thought, I could probably save the world. You could say that was a stupid decision, but the army is the largest, most coordinated, most active, most funded and most established organisation there is that has the capacity to help people worldwide. True, it can be corrupted, and that corruption exists on a larger scale than small scale organisations, but that's the price you pay for size, just as grief is the price we pay for love. But, I said to myself, if I as an individual could remain _un_corrupted and not lose sight of why I was there, then it was a price I was willing to pay. I don't regret that decision. I never will.

As for the hurricane…I have only one thing to say about it. Who really knows what the effects will be? If lives are lost because of it then it will be awful, yes... But at least it will be a_ natural_ disaster and not something planned out methodically to intentionally cause death to as many innocent people as possible. So I, for one, am glad that the thing headed for the UK is 'just' a hurricane.


	77. Sherlock Email: Holiday part 7

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From: Sherlock Holmes **(s_hol&yahoo,co,uk)**

To: John Watson **(j_watson&gmail,co,uk)**

Subject: Leon

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"Come in," I told Leon, playing the perfect host. Soul, who was lying by the stove in the living room, looked up as he entered. She smelled alcohol on his breath, and cigarettes on his beard. Her ears went down and her lips drew back in a silent growl, as she looked at me for instructions. "Calm," I whispered to her. She settled again, but kept her eyes fixed on him all the time.

"Coffee? Tea?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Coffee." It sounded like he was talking on autopilot.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Er…just milk," he whispered, his eyebrows pulling down in wary confusion. I went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"Biscuit?" I continued lightly. "I've got chocolate chips, bourbons or custard creams."

"No…no I'm fine." There was a hint of impatience now. I heard the sound of footsteps, followed by paper rustling.

"What about cake? A sandwich?" I didn't have either of those on hand, but I knew what his answer would be and he gave it, this time with a definite edge to his voice. I began to tire of this game and brought the two mugs through to the living room.

"You had the answer you needed all along," Leon told me. "It was staring you right in the face. Literally. And you never noticed." I looked confused, and he nodded at the bookshelf, upon which was sitting the plant book I had been reading on the train on the way down. "Page one hundred and fifty one," he instructed me. Eyeing him, taking every last bit of information I could from his body language. I crossed the room and picked up the book. Cautiously I pushed the pages back until I got to page one hundred fifty one.

It was in the section about the roots of African medicinal herbs. Leon stood beside me and read over my shoulder. He was about ten centimetres taller than me and his shoulders were a lot broader than mine. I couldn't help deducing that his last meal had consisted of garlic bread, korma sauce and fried butternut squash. All three give off distinct odours on the breath, even after several hours. He had also been gardening, because although his hands were very clean, there were still traces of soil under his fingernails, strips of skin around the nails and small, semi-fresh cuts and grazes over the backs of his hands.

"There," Leon stated, tapping his finger against a picture of a calloused, hoof-like plant. "See the cloven appearance of the root? That's how it got its name. Radix pedis diaboli – Devil's Foot."

"Traditionally used during witch hunts," I muttered, reading the text aloud. "The root of this plant is ground to produce a reddish powder which sublimates upon combustion, producing a highly toxic, hallucinogenic gas. Aside from its psychedelic effects, this gas reacts with water to produce a corrosive compound which strips away cells in the respiratory tract. The full effect, therefore, is to induce panic in its victims, before slowly suffocating them. During a witch hunt, the accused was tied to a rack and tortured in order to extract a confession. If this failed, the gas was burned and wafted in front of them until they either confessed (leading to hanging) or went mad and subsequently died from the effects of the fumes. In extreme cases fabric, earth or plant material was pushed into the mouth in order to draw out the death."

I gave Leon a long, hard, meaningful look. He dropped his gaze after a few seconds. "You wanted him not just to die, but to really suffer," I commented. "Why? What did you stand to gain from that?" Two pink flushes appeared on his cheeks, and he fidgeted with his hands, not in a nervous manner, but a manner reminiscent of one trying to contain strong emotion. "Brenda…little, sweet, charming Brenda…" His eyes were wet. "I remember when her mother, my younger sister, told me she was pregnant again. She was so excited to finally have a girl after three boys. She thought she couldn't have more children. After all, the boys were fourteen, twelve and ten." He was crying properly now. "I watched her grow up. Her favourite flowers were sunflowers. I remember her bringing one home from school aged seven. Grinning fit to burst. They used the seeds in a salad. She didn't stop talking about it for three days." The tears were replaced with a fond introspection. "I spoiled her – we all did. We couldn't help it. She was the little princess of the house. But the boys – none of them were what you'd call likeable. Always trying to out-compete each other, and Joseph, being the youngest, always tended to be pushed to the side. He kept quiet about it, but he was resentful, cunning and dangerous too. I caught him stripping back the wires on an electrical plug in the older boys' bedroom once. I don't know whether he wanted to kill them or just – if you'll forgive the pun – give them a nasty shock. I'm inclined to think the latter, but at the same time, given what's happened now, I wouldn't completely put it past him.

"Well…it was my father who owned the business that caused this whole feud. It's a firm that makes plumming and gardening equipment. It's well established – been running for over a hundred years. It was passed through the family. Helen – my sister – was married by the time we were ready to inherit it, and I had no interest in plumming or business in general for that matter. Meanwhile, I'd been granted a research post in Africa. So I thought it might unite the children (well, I say children – the – the oldest of them was thirty-five by then) if I handed over the business to them. You can see for yourself how mistaken I was.

"Anyway, I disappeared off to Africa for a few years. I only came back to visit because of Brenda. Helen and her husband Matthew – the childrens' father – were still living in the house that stage. Joseph was away at university, but he came back briefly against his will whilst I visited.

"The Reverend Marshall put me up at the parish house because there wasn't really enough room for a seventh person at the house itself. I remember telling stories about Africa, and showing them all the samples I had collected. Two weeks later there was a massive row between the brothers again, over the business I had given them. Joseph declared he would never live under the same roof as his two brothers again and left. And I left too – I'd had more than enough of their silly bickering.

"Well, another two years passed, and from what I heard from Helen, Joseph was keeping his vow not to live in the house. He was in his university flat. Then when he graduated (with a third class BSc honours in pharmacology), he lodged at the vicarage, because he couldn't afford to pay rent on anything. I suppose he thought he SHOULD have been able to afford it, if he had been given his share of the business. I suppose that resentment must have built up over time.

"The only explanation for the Devil's Foot that I can think of is that I must have left it there by mistake from when I stayed. Joseph Tregellis worked with what he had to hand – he didn't usually get things in specially for his traps and schemes. So he would have seen the sample as a miraculous opportunity to get his revenge. I didn't think to ask him any of that when I was busy killing him – " He didn't falter. " – But he did tell me one thing which slightly eased my grief. He'd never meant that gas to claim my Brenda. He resented her, yes, for all the attention she'd got as a child. But he didn't hate her enough to want her dead. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I don't regret what I did to Joseph Tregellis. He needed to feel what she felt. It wasn't murder. It was justice."

Leon sighed heavily and passed a hand over his face. The coffee had not been touched, and it was stone cold. "It doesn't make it easier though," he said, as much to himself as to me. "I left the powder in the vicarage. I gave them the business that fuelled the rows. If I hadn't, maybe they'd have gone their separate ways and none of this would every have happened." He met my eyes, held his wrists out and smiled. "I've had a good life," he said. "I've carried out my research, I've been uncle to a beautiful niece and I've suitably avenged her death. I'll come quietly."

I made my fingers into a steeple and looked at him in silence for some time. I felt terribly conflicted. On one hand, killing family revolted me. On the other hand, I knew that he wouldn't be a danger to anyone else. Was his action premeditated? Arguably yes, but he had been severely provoked, and he was full of anger and grief and therefore not in a sound state of mind. It was manslaughter, certainly, but was he going to be a danger to anyone else? No. I just knew it. I couldn't say why I knew it. Sometimes I get gut feelings about such things. In that case, what was to be done with the man? Since I strongly believed he wasn't going to do anything like this ever again, I felt it would do no good to destroy another life.

I stood up, opened the door and waved him through. He exited the house and waited for me to follow. "Back to Africa with you," I said, allowing myself a subliminal smile.

He blinked. "I…I'm sorry?"

I fidgeted, and then drew breath. "I don't think I've loved another human being as much as you loved Brenda…" I said with hesitation. "…But if something like that were to ever happen to Soul…I might take the law into my own hands too." I paused and looked at the ground, feeling awkward. Then I gestured vaguely in his direction. "You have a passion," I told him, pulling myself together. "You buried yourself in it once. Work is the best antidote to sorrow. Go back and bury yourself in it again."

"But…the police, surely…?"

"Why should I hand them their case on a plate?"

Leon's mouth opened and shut as he struggled for an answer. Then he smiled – a smile which conveyed both emotional pain, and relief at the weight which I had lifted from him. He stood up, straighter than I had seen him stand in the short time I had known him, and drew a big breath which he let out slowly. "The world needs more people like you Mr…" He searched for my name.

"Holmes," I supplied, and he held out his hand for me to shake.

That night I smoked five cigarettes, but I didn't inject. I left the window open, so that the sea air could circulate. I left the curtains open too, in the hope of seeing some stars. It was cloudy but the clouds were clearing, and a half moon was becoming slowly visible. Soul lay stretched out on my bed, snoring. I liked the pressure of her on top of me. And when I went to sleep I didn't dream of coal mines. I dreamed of rainforests, rivers and wide open, grassy planes.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

_Sent Today 16:28:21_


	78. John: A Memoir in Music

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

_[JW: At the time of writing this I wasn't intending to post it as a blog. I was just writing it for myself, to pass the time. It seemed like a good idea following completion. No sense letting work go to waste.]_

There's something about wind and rain that makes one reflective and content. Especially when you live in a flat with standing lamps, a sofa and an open fire. Sherlock has gone out into the storm, on some sort of chase. He reassured me that the chase was for strictly inanimate objects, or he would have invited me to join him. He was looking for clues, he said, and that was all I could get out of him. Rather him than me, I thought, and besides I wasn't actually feeling very well. My stomach felt like a washing machine and I was nauseous and sweaty. A couple of hours ago I had found a slice of pizza resting on the kitchen work surface next to Sherlock's chemistry equipment, and being hungry I'd foolishly eaten half of it. But I did insist that if he wouldn't tell me where he was going, he could at least give me the password for his iphone account, so I could track him. That way, if anything went wrong or he wasn't back after several hours, I would know where to find him.

I had finished my work. Didn't feel particularly like reading after wading through flu vaccination paperwork, or like watching something, as I didn't want to have to tax my brain engaging in a story line. Therefore I have succumbed, you might say, to the ten-song ipod shuffle. I suppose there is a bit of Desert Island Discs in this exercise too. I have what I consider to be a fairly open mind when it comes to music, and am willing to try most kinds of music. However I do have some preferences. I consider strong lyrics, with a message in them, to be important. Also I like there to be a distinct 'feel' to the music, because by and large it seems melodies are quite similar, fundamentally. So the 'feel' of a song, coupled with the words goes a long way to making it an individual piece of music. A strong rhythm is great too – you can use different songs to motivate you in different ways if they have strong rhythms.

**Paul Simon – 'Under African Skies'**

A prime example of how a strong rhythm alone can make some songs work. I like to wash dishes with this song playing. I would like to be able to dance to it too, but I have a really terrible dancing style, and I'm very clumsy. It would be an eyesore! Anyway, he seems to hit a fundamental musical quality that unites many, if not most, humans. This is illustrated in the fact that the song moves from the very specific to the very general. It's even reflected in the lyrics. First they are about a very specific person and place. Then they become about people in general and how they are all connected by music and rhythm, right from when they are in the nursery. Then, almost as if to prove this point, the vocals break away from lyrics altogether and into something which is not quite beat-boxing, but is more beat-filled than simply a melody. Finally the backing slowly fades, until only the most basic 'root' of the song's rhythm remains…and it still sounds like the whole.

**The Corrs - 'So Young Now'**

This song has personal meaning to me – it is one that makes me feel nostalgic about my time on leave from the army. During my time training as an army surgeon, then training in combat skills and then my first year actually being posted in Afghanistan, I would come back and stay in Harry's flat whenever I had free time. She was making her first attempt at recovering from alcoholism, and was also seeing a doctor about her moods. The doctor wanted to prescribe her a mood stabiliser, but Harry said not until she had kicked the alcohol, so it was an exceptionally rough, unpredictable time for both of us. I loved and dreaded my leaves. I loved them because back then Harry and me were very close (that was all before Clara), but I dreaded them because I never knew what I would find when I walked in through her door. She would either be high as a kite with a million plans to change the world, that she wanted to set in motion all at once, or so disinterested in everything that she couldn't speak and was sometimes unable to get out of her bed to meet me at the door. As a brother I felt both guilty and helpless. Guilty because I wasn't there for her and knew I should be, and helpless because even if I had been, there seemed to be little I could do to help her while she refused to be helped. And then guilty again because I knew that I was scared of putting my own life on hold and making the full-time committment required to care for her properly. I like to think she appreciated my company though. She would apologise through the lows for being a stupid, useless person and for not being able to do anything right. Harry had a karaoke machine in her living room which a friend had brought round when she first moved in. On better days we used to blast out the Corrs, and this was one of our favourites. It seemed to put things in perspective for her, to a certain degree. I know it would be difficult for anyone to imagine me singing karaoke(!), but I suppose it's different when the person you are with used to help change your nappies. And you'll do anything for someone you care deeply about, if you think it will make a positive difference for them.

**Crowded House – 'Don't Dream It's Over'**

Another song with a very strong rhythm. When I first returned from Afghanistan and was in the hotel, before moving in with Sherlock, I used to listen to this song a lot. I think it described my feelings rather well. I was resigned to the fact that I would never be much use as a soldier again, and that I would have to get used to the mundane daily routine seemingly repeated endlessly. One might think a song like this would, as well as describing my feelings, compound them. But it didn't. There's a sort of resigned melancholy to it, but it's also energising, as though it _wants_ there to be something worth pursuing. Actually I think it helped me accept that there was no going back; that the army phase of my life was over now. Accepting that helped me to forge a meaningful life for myself back home in England. I like the fact that the life I now have requires me to be proactive, rather than waiting on orders – that's one thing I don't miss about the army.

**Pet Shop Boys – 'Go West'**

I wouldn't say this is exactly a favourite song, but it does make me laugh, again because of the memories attached to it. It was the Village People I originally heard singing it, but to be honest I prefer this version. When I was little it wasn't that well known, but Harry, who was fourteen at the time, got hold of a recording. We had to hide it from our parents because I was only nine and wasn't supposed to listen to that kind of thing, but whenever our parents argued, we played it on her cassette player with headphones on so we couldn't hear the shouting. I let my friends who came round hear it as well, whilst all of us huddled in Harry's room. It was like some kind of secret Village People appreciation club. Of course, there were times where there was a great deal of tension when we couldn't get away, for example at mealtimes. Those occasions used to make me very panicky, and Harry would cheer me up by mouthing 'Go West' across the table, and we would perform the actions as quietly as possible whenever Mum and Dad weren't looking. It distracted us to the point of silent giggles. If they glanced round we would freeze, and if they asked what was going on we would burst out laughing. When I was ten my primary school (which was a Catholic one), put on a nativity play, in which I played one of the kings. I wore a Christmas cracker hat and my slippers and dressing gown (the dressing gown was blue with a teddy bear pattern printed on it). Two of my best friends, William and Joe, were playing the other two wise men. Harry had volunteered to organise the music for the play, because she had a double tape recorder that could record compilation tapes. They wanted a traditional nativity play with lots of carols, and she honoured their request the first time around. I mean, there was 'Away in a Manger' and 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks' and 'The Angel Gabriel from Heaven Came', and everything like that. But at the last minute the tape broke (I think it fell off the desk and got trodden on by another classmate), and she had to make it again the night before the show. So she did. She made it as good as new, except for one thing: She swapped 'We Three Kings' for 'Go West'. Only me, my friends and she knew about it, and we thought it was a brilliant idea! I think we put on a really good show. The audience seemed to enjoy it, and it broke the monotony. Anyway, the three wise men DID go west! So the story goes anyway. It also got us suspended from the school, but Harry took the blame and I was spared. The only consequence was that Harry was banned from assisting with their plays again, but since she was involved with the secondary school's drama club anyway she didn't particularly care.

**Baz Luhrman 'Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen'**

For me, aside from the lyrics helping me to mould my own personality, for me this song signifies hard work. Whilst completing my undergraduate and doctorate degrees I lived with Dad. He was so stuck-up and had such a bad temper that I found it difficult to be in his presence for more than about half an hour at a time – we would just end up fighting, so I spent most of my time in my room studying. I listened to music on my walkman whilst working, and during my doctorate this was a song that featured rather a lot. It's also tinged with sadness now though, because the lyric 'Brother and sister, together we'll make it through' can't be said to be true for me and Harry. We didn't make it through the divorce together – she went to live with Mum, and I missed her a great deal. Maybe that is also why I buried myself in my work. But when I graduated she came to the ceremony as my guest, and that meant more to me than words can say.

**James – 'Sometimes' **

Ah, this song actually reminds me of Sherlock. Despite him appearing so cold and detached on the surface, there _is _a heart in there, and that heart occasionally shows itself in the most unexpected and unpredictable ways. Sometimes when Sherlock is especially rude and callous in tone I still wonder whether perhaps I am thinking wishfully. I think he'd like me to believe so. But I know, and Lestrade knows, and Mrs Hudson knows, even if he doesn't – that he is a good human being.

**The Divine Comedy – 'The Pop Singer's Fear of the Pollen Count'**

This song makes me laugh (I am a hay fever sufferer). At some points sneezing is even incorporated into the beat. I do wonder how mild or severe Neil Hannon's hay fever is though. If I walk in long grass I come out with severe itching on my skin, itchy throat, itchy, watery eyes and a nose that feels as though it wants to sneeze all the time but can never actually perform the deed. Hay fever aside though, there is a very positive message in the song which, admittedly, I think I need to take to heart more. One can either moan about bad things in life or make the most of the good things. Even with hay fever, summer is beautiful and enjoyable, and that sort of reflects life in general and the things in it. Yet the song never feels preachy because it is sung in such a light-hearted, non-serious way.

**Crash Test Dummies – 'God Shuffled His Feet'**

One of my current favourite songs (and bands too). I know I bang on about religion a lot, but it genuinely fascinates me why and how someone could come to believe in something like that off their own bat. I know this song may seem offensive and arrogant to some people, given that it implies a non-omniscient and altogether rather pathetic God, so to those people, I'm sorry if this causes offense. However, I think this song is not so much about God, but about some people who believe in God. Not everyone of course, but some people seem far too eager to be fed any old dogma and then follow it without thinking because it's 'God's word', and hang the consequences and their effects on other people. At least the people in this song question what is being said and done. That's not to say that I have a problem with faith itself. Faith is a necessary part of life, and I really admire people with that capacity – especially people who are able to have faith in themselves and their abilities. I just think faith without reason can be a dangerous thing, and this song illustrates that perfectly, once again without ever getting too heavy handed.

**Capercaillie – Miracle of Being**

Again, this is another band that I've only just began to get into. I think Harry would like this band – there are similarities to The Corrs in there. There's something in this song that seems like a cross between traditional and tribal – a very unlikely, yet effective combination. Again, I think the sentiments expressed in the song are very true. Even if there is no reason or meaning to life, it's a 'miracle' just _being _alive. Even with step by step evolution, it's a miracle we got to where we are, that the system works as well as it does and that when we let it be, it interacts so perfectly with all other systems on the planet. Not to mention the inorganic physics of our universe, such as the water cycle and the seasons, that cannot evolve but occur nonetheless. But appreciation of being is more than that. For me, it's little things like becoming aware of your fingertips and of the cold-burning, light-headedness when you breathe in deeply, and light like a blade into your eyes in the morning, and soft-headedness in the evening after a tiring day, and of gently tapping your forehead and feeling that, rather than being only a few centimetres down, the conscious part of your brain is somewhere far back, in some deep, in-between space. Obviously we are afraid of dying for instinctive reasons, but love of being alive is harder to rationalise. Maybe it's not as important to rationalise it as to remember it.

**The Eels – Mr E's Beautiful Blues**

Ah, this song follows on perfectly(!) I might go as far as to say that the Eels are currently my favourite band of all, because creating songs – so many songs – that express so much joy mingled with such pure and undisguised realism is mind-blowing to me. This is my favourite of those songs. Apparently the verse and chorus cannot be reconciled in sentiment, and yet they fit together perfectly. Like olive oil and vinegar, like happiness and sadness, and each makes the other more flavoursome and meaningful.

-/-/-

Massive scare, and a bit of a shock for Sherlock too. I had been promising myself that I wouldn't check his whereabouts unless I suspected trouble, but unfortunately curiosity got the better of me. I logged onto his phone's account to see what he was up to. The most recent dot was over the river. Directly over the river. On the river in fact, near Waterloo bridge. Had been resting there for a good hour. Quickly I checked all boat times of tourist boats that went down that stretch of the Thames. None were scheduled to be anchored or even travelling on the river. I realised I had stopped breathing. My hands felt icy. It never occurred to me that Sherlock might have been lying about where he was going. I flashed back mentally through our time together and everything I knew about the man. He had seemed quiet, disinterested at times, but I'd thought that was a front…no I just couldn't believe that conclusion. He must have met with an accident. Or a criminal. If so there was a limited window to catch a murderer. I was shaking (how strange to be shaking when I'm normally so steady under pressure), but adrenaline was giving me clarity of mind and calm haste. I grabbed the phone and dialled Lestrade. "Sherlock's in the Thames off Waterloo Bridge," I blurted out. Before Lestrade could react I had hung up and was mechanically pulling on my coat, wondering simultaneously how to tell Mycroft and Mrs Hudson what had happened. I rushed down the stairs towards the front door. So convinced was I that Sherlock was gone that I actually felt an uncanny fear when I saw his outline coming through the door. "Ah, John," he said by way of greeting. Then he swept past me and up the stairs. I followed him. "You…you…" was all I could say at first. Then: "I thought you were dead."

He turned to face me.

"What on Earth made you think that?" he asked, and I realised that I would have to reveal that I had been spying on him.

"I'm sorry…I couldn't resist taking a peek."

There was a pause. "Ah I see," he said at last. "Yeah, my phone fell into the river."

I had no answer for that. I couldn't very well admonish him for not giving me a message that he was ok, when his messaging mechanism was lying at the bottom of the river, and it wasn't in his nature to give up a chase for what he would consider sentimental reasons.

"Strong phone, to keep working two hours after I dropped it," he remarked, switching on his laptop.

"So, er…" I faltered, "What are you gonna do about that?"

"Oh, I'll just get a new one and transfer my information onto it."

"But the cost…?"

He gave me a withering look. "Well it's not the first time I've lost a phone in action," he told me shortly. "I do have contingency funds."

"Want mine in the meantime?" I asked spontaneously, and then instantly wondered how wise that offer was, and how long the phone was like to last.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but I saw the touched expression in his eyes.

"Thank you, John." He said. "So you were worried?"

"Yeah," I said. The air seemed to have gone very still.

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Well…" he flushed for a moment, and seemed stuck for a response. "Don't be," he finished. I smiled. "What's for dinner?"

I resisted the urge to do an impression of Mrs Hudson saying she wasn't our housekeeper. "Pasta bake," I said, doing a mental stock-take as I did so.

"Good," Sherlock said, turning his back on me. "I'm starving. Oh and by the way? That pizza had human flesh in it."


	79. Sherlock Holmes: Ipod Shuffle

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

Normally I let John post whatever he like about me and my cases. Whilst practically he is the best companion and assistant I could ever wish for during my cases, and undoubtedly a good scientist too to have taken his medical career in the direction it went, he is remarkably bad at taking a detached, practical view and tone in his writing. I've come to learn that there's little point in offering criticism though; he just goes ahead and writes what he believes to be 'readable' anyway. To be fair, I can see his logic: What do the public, the great, unobservant public, who could hardly tell a guitarist by the difference in the lengths of the fingernails on each of the hands, or a painter by the groove between the fingers where the brush rests, care about the little details – the most important ones – that are so crucial to objective analysis and deduction during a case?

But this time, even though it wasn't directly about me, I had to intervene and point out the complete ridiculousness of his last post (the ipod shuffling one). If I didn't I would be doing myself a disservice. It was not in the least analytical and it only came close to critiquing one of the songs. In fact as a whole it was naïve, preachy, autobiographical and above all extremely subjective. It also turned what could potentially have been an excellent case report into what I can only describe as a trivial anecdote. When I retire from detection (perish the thought), the first thing I'm going to do is bring out an instructive manual that gives detection the status it deserves as an exact scientific discipline (or as near to exact as it can be brought). It will highlight some of my most intriguing and seminal cases, and explain what lessons are to be learned through my handling of each situation.

Music, like talent, should be assessed entirely on the quality of the piece; the arrangement, structure, chord choices and patterns and the effects created thereof. Also the quality of the playing if you are critiquing the rendition as well as the piece itself. It should not be assessed on the grounds of the lyrics (one can read poetry for good language), personal meaning the music has in terms of your own life story, or the messages you have yourself drawn from the piece. It's understandable that John would sidestep trying to seriously critique and analyse the quality of tracks like the ones he chose. They may be pleasant enough in the same way that sugar tastes nice, but they are not nutritionally dense, metaphorically speaking. In other words, there is no real depth to them. It may seem like it, because lack of depth is often disguised under drums or by senselessly adding a lot of different sounds that push the listener into information processing overload. Good orchestral pieces, for example, take years to compose (unlike commercial music which is pummelled out in any shape or form the artists can be bothered with, so long as it makes them money), and tell stories of the place and era the music was composed and the people who listened to it at the time (unlike commercial music where most musical components are used in the same way as wood pulp is used in American food). Good music is like good art – it's all symbolic in some way.

For those reasons, apart from the exception of two pieces, all the music I listen to is lyric-less, or the lyrics are in Latin or otherwise inaudible in the case of the choral music. Apart from a few that are relatively modern, my tracks are what the public would dub 'classical music'. I dub it simply 'music'.

To make up for John's piece, I have decided to post my own ten-track ipod shuffle. I will attempt to analyse the music in a way I believe to reflect my love of the pieces, and be helpful to the reader. Some advice I would give to any readers who feel inspired to find these pieces: If possible, view the pieces in concert, as the sound quality in a proper theatre, with the musicians there in the flesh is far superior to listening to an electronic imitation through speakers, and especially through headphones. You will find you enjoy them more if you alter the settings on your stereo system, so that the base is favoured over the treble. This gives the music a much fuller, richer quality. Do not try to do other things at the same time as listening – real music deserves your full attention.

**Mozart - Krönungsmesse - Gloria **

_When and where heard:_ St Paul's Cathedral, 1996, whilst at university

_Favourite time to listen:_ When happy and working well

_Critique:_ The piece opens boldly with not only the entire orchestra, but the entire vocal range of the choir singing the single word "Gloria" and playing together in harmony. This triumphant ensemble playing and singing will occur periodically throughout the piece, but always pulls back before it can become raucous. Mozart had the ability to make music that is both beautiful and very precise. He was a maths genius as well as a music genius, and it shows in his ability to switch between long, deep notes and small, light notes without the music ever sounding incongruous, or the tempo significantly changing. He also demonstrates his genius in making full use of the entire choir and orchestra, giving them all an equal role in the piece. It never feels as if the choir are there to compliment the orchestra, or like the orchestra are there to simply back the choir, unlike commercial music. Instead it feels as though the two are in duet with each other. It is a piece whose execution depends very much upon the quality of the performers since a soprano soloist is required to hold the main melody at several points over considerable activity from the rest of the choir and orchestra, hitting high notes and making big vocal leaps. If this is not achieved it can ruin a rendition. Approximately two minutes in the piece changes from major to minor key, giving it a temporarily darker and more haunting tone. Much of the piece is made up of sequences, which makes it very memorable. Before it ends it returns to a variation of the "Gloria" melody that it began with. This makes for a relatively less diverse piece of music over all, but gives a pleasing feeling of closure and familiarity at the end, which stays with the listener after it has finished.

**Chopin Op. 7 no. 1 Mazurka in B flat major **

_Where and when heard: _Mycroft's party piece

_Favourite time to listen: _Never really had a favourite time. Banned from music as a child in case it set the seizures off, and then fell out with Mycroft as a teenager/adult. Have only heard the first nine bars in Mrs Hudson's music box since then.

_Critique: _This Mazurka is as much a dance for the fingers as it is a dance for the feet. It is a simple, light, soft piece full of rubato and quick, fluttery notes; very Polish. Like Mozart's 'Gloria' it has a definite melody that it keeps returning to – a climb up and down the B flat major scale in essence. There is only one (repeated) section in the middle where the piece moves away from this key into the minor. Even with the repeats being played, this piece barely lasts three minutes, which means it is often used as encore piece by concert pianists, including my brother (when encouraged/forced).

**Bach - Brandenburg Concertos No.5 - i: Allegro**

_Where and when heard: _In concert when a very young child, and again when living alone at my flat in Montague Street.

_Favourite time to listen: _When I need to connect pieces of a case together: Bach's greatest strength is in creating so many diverse musical threads and not only holding them all together in equal import, but making each one compliment all of the others. I find listening to them stimulating to me, as the drawing together into coherence of so many, so greatly varying musical strands, encourages my brain to draw together different strands of information until I have a coherent case.

_Critiquie: _Like Mozart's Gloria, and like many classical pieces I am drawn to, the Brandenburg concerto number five opens with the entire orchestra playing, giving the piece an immediately exultant, joyful tone. However, unlike the Gloria it has no vocalists and no staccato word repeated in the run up to the main melody. Rather, it launches straight into the main melody. Straight away we can hear the lower strings have a melody all of their own, as is often the case with the base lines in Bach. The main melody, or the essence of it, returns at least three times throughout the course of the piece, but there is the feeling that the entire movement is made of different melodies that run into each other; the first being for the entire orchestra, the second being for the woodwind and the violins. Furthermore, even when the main melody returns, it is never played quite the same twice, allowing for progression into far more different territories than, for example, Chopin's Mazurka in B Flat. At times the main melody is also used as a tune strand for the base while the higher instruments play a new melody, again proving that Bach is a genius for connecting everything in the music. The basic rhythm of the piece, similar in some ways to Handel's 'Arrival of the Queen of Sheba' remains fairly consistent throughout, with the exception of one section: The harpsichord solo in the middle, where the harpsichordist is required to take on the work of the entire orchestra singlehandedly for at least two minutes. Bach cuts the harpsichordist no slack in this respect, and that is certainly a good thing – such a solo would let down the entire piece if it was specially written to be easier for the harpsichordist. I am sure, in Bach's day, this was the equivalent of the guitar solo heard now in so many rock numbers. Or rather, the guitar solos heard now in so many rock numbers are the equivalent of the harpsichord solo in the Brandenburg, since the Brandenburg came first and those guitar solos pale unforgivably in the face of this. If only people would play this instead of the rubbish that is spewed today I am sure they would abandon their petty rock music in favour of real music. There is nothing inaccessible about good music – there are 'choruses' and verses just like in modern music. The only difference is the lack of a loud, incessant beat and the lack of lyrics to tell us exactly what to think, or distract us from the fact that the 'artists' are attempting to brainwash us into believing they are actually competent musicians. Have normal peoples' brains stagnated so much that they can't even be bothered to look for meaning in their 'art' unless it's spelled out to them by someone paid to churn out endless drivel?

**Gidon Kremer – Kremerata Baltica – "Blitz Fantasy" Adagio**

_Where and when heard:_ In the album, having bought it after watching a documentary on Kremerata Baltica – a Baltic chamber orchestra created by Gidon Kremer, who also plays lead violin.

_Favourite time to listen: _Prior to those rare times when a case involving death absolutely requires me to act like I care about social niceties etc.

_Critique: _The key to this piece is its undulation as it progresses, and the sense of stillness and starkness it creates, until a climatic point two thirds of the way through, before being brought full circle and dying away again towards the end. The opening strings are in fact so subtle and so gradual that one needs to turn up the volume to maximum to have a chance of hearing anything at all. The male vocalist singing the main melody sings so softly and so keeningly that his voice becomes somewhat instrumental. And yet there is never a feeling that that instrumentation is contrived, or that it is trying to disguise itself as a human voice. In fact, it is the human-ness of it that makes it so haunting. The main orchestra comes in shortly after the voice completes the first melody. One always feels that this piece is going to build to something extraordinary, as it slowly swells, and yet the composer teases the listener's expectations by bringing down the building in favour of a violin solo based around the main melody once more. Gradually as the solo progresses, again, more instruments are added, and simple harmonies, until the solo voice comes in, stronger this time. The second building of the tune by the orchestra rises much higher than the first, up to a point of almost cathartic release at which the violins carry the tune before, in an almost stepwise manner, the tension created is slowly discharged and the orchestra dies off again, and the lead violin continues to hold the melody. Finally the male vocalist carries the melody one last time, ending in an absolutely pure three notes from the vocalist, the lead violin, and, as merely an undercurrent now, the rest of the orchestra. The purity and perfection of this short movement within the whole cannot be overstated.

**Schubert – Sonata in B Flat – Allegro Moderato**

_Where and when heard: _In the cradle. According to Mummy, when I was an infant this was frequently the only thing that would stop my incessant screaming and make me smile.

_Favourite time to listen: _When I have finished a case but the accompanying insomnia has not yet worn off.

_Critique: _Doubtless this piece would be far more effective as a lullaby if the jovial, semi-loud segments died away to the lulling melody that is found in the beginning, rather than the other way around, and the magnificent sections weren't so…magnificent. Not that this is a criticism, as this piece plays out like a journey and thus the progression sounds natural. As I have alluded to, the piece begins with a very lulling piano rendition, interspersed by a gentle undertone of low notes, much like a background rustling. The piece gradually builds in volume and speed until it can only be described as swollen in tone, as it revisits the opening melody, which it then builds on and departs from as the piece progresses. Approximately a quarter of the way through the rhythm of the piece briefly gives way to one much more like that of a scherzo – impish and tentative in turns, and whilst occasionally dramatic, never dark in tone. Following this episode the rhythm once again changes, and the piece takes on a more melancholy, night-like tone. This quickly gives way once more to the light, humourous rhythm. This is a piece that constantly surprises the listener, and it is impossible to pin it down with any one adjective. Unlike the first four pieces I have critiqued so far, although there is a theme, the piece consists mainly of variations on that, and not so much of departures and reprises, although at a few points it does return to the original theme. For some people that may make it hard to orientate one's self in, from an aural point of view, but if one remembers that it is a theme and variations they should have little trouble enjoying this beautiful piece.

**Gilbert and Sullivan – Pirates of Penzance – A Policeman's Lot**

_Where and when heard: _On television

_Favourite time to listen: _When I am particularly frustrated with the official police.

_Critique: _One of the very, very few pieces (and musical plays) I appreciate for the lyrics. It is a standard, uncomplicated, one might say vulgar song, and yet the comedy value carries it; particularly for a person who has to put up with a less than competent police on a regular basis. I realise I have just broken my own rules with regards to what a musical critique should include. In certain cases I suppose an exception may prove the rule, and it is best to listen to this piece, or better still see it performed live, to see exactly why I feel this is one of those cases.

**Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto in D Major – 1****st**** Movement**

_Where and when heard: _In concert, just before I discovered an actual Stradivarius violin for £9.00 with no reserve on ebay.

_Favourite time to listen: _When I am playing it, when I am going about my normal routines (Not during detection though: It does something to my body and mind whereby I become acutely aware of my beating heart and my head feels strangely light, and my thoughts stray irritatingly from what they normally concentrate so easily upon).

_Critique: _ This piece might come across to some as pretentious, perhaps more so than the ones that open suddenly and unreservedly such as Gloria and the Brandenburg, because it presumes to build to a rousing melody very quickly from a low, simple beginning; but also because it centres around a single lead violin. However, as a whole piece, despite these moments of pretention, it has a surprisingly tender and engaging tone to it. It has, perhaps, one of the more even keels to it than many of the pieces of music I gravitate towards. By this I mean that, in some ways like the sonata in B flat, it coasts in rhythm – but unlike the Sonata it doesn't play with the expectations of the listener – instead it builds and flows naturally through each stage, without making sudden changes in mood or melody, even if there are changes in dynamics and tempo at times. Towards the middle the piece begins to branch out a little more with rhythm and erratic mood as the violinist is temporarily given free rein by the orchestra, but since the transitions towards and within this stage are smooth, the piece feels cohesive as a whole, and it is therefore not jarring when the whole orchestra come back in again with the initial melody. Like Gloria, there are many times when the piece feels like the orchestra and lead violin are dueting, although it is clear in this piece that there is a status difference, and the violin has been given precedence. By the end of the piece there is the feeling that the over-the-top, arguably pompous ending was indeed justified.

"**Due South" Theme Song**

_Where and when heard: _I had to collect urgent lab results from Molly out of hours, and therefore had to go to her flat. She was watching series 2 of this – an episode entitled 'North' if I remember correctly. I hadn't intended to stay, but was quickly drawn into the episode. She therefore leant me the DVD, and I did no more detection for that week. I wasn't psychologically or physically unwell; nobody was away from the police force, and Mycroft had a case lined up for me, so I will repeat that: I did _no _detection that week. Whilst I can't identify on a personal level with Benton Fraser or any other character in the show, I think what caught my imagination so fiercely was the fact that it made fun of most everything that is flawed in life (making some very good points in the process). Politics, morals, authority figures, the official police force – it sent up all of it…But it put proper detection based on observation, knowledge, experience, hard work and deduction, on a pedestal, right up where it should be. Not that it didn't occasionally send it up as well, but it understood the importance of the five principles. We can only hope that this will soon be the case in real life, and if ever I become dispirited at the lack of respect my methods are given, all I have to do is watch an episode to feel better – even though I now know every episode off by heart…literally. The partnership between Fraser and Diefenbaker also reminds me of my time with Soul.

_Favourite time to Listen:_ In any free time I have where I need cheering up or when not enough is happening.

_Critique of the Song: _Unlike almost every other modern song I know, there is material in this song worth critiquing in musical terms. The guitar, synth and shaker introduction to this piece, followed by the famous baseline are surprisingly effective in giving a feeling of wild spaciousness, such as that of the home country around which the whole show is based, but is only featured at the very beginning and end. The male singer does not produce his voice correctly – his voice is produced through the sinuses instead of from the bottom of the diaphragm, but the pitch and naturally soft tone is perfect for a song in which backing and arrangement is truly as important to the ear as lyrics and melody. The structure of the song is also unusual – there is a verse followed by a chorus, a fiddle solo, followed by bridge and chorus. Following this there is an instrumental solo whilst, although modernly arranged, is heavily based on traditional music, and thus adds to the atmosphere of the piece as a whole. Whilst not actually being original, this is at least refreshing in comparison to the other feeble attempts at originality in modern music. In the last chorus the power of that instrumental is used to accompany the singing, before the arrangement tails away towards the end. A similar structure is used in the Brandenburg, the pattern of which also consists of the main melody and departing segments, followed by an increasingly complex 'instrumental' on the harpsichord, before returning to the 'chorus' for the end of the piece.

**Dyson – Magnificat in D**

_When first heard: _In a CD of King's College choral music

_Favourite time to listen_: If I ever lose my marbles and marry, and nobody is there to talk sense into me, this is the song I plan to have as my unsuspecting bride walks up the aisle.

_Critique: _At first this song may appear to be yet another triumphant cacophony, but very quickly it becomes apparent that it is a more introspective piece. Although it begins with the whole choir and the organ, and there is a feeling of power and momentum, it is sustained power and momentum, rather than a forcible deluge of power. There is a lilting rhythm which, although measured and rousing, may be the only thing that can become vaguely mechanical about the piece as it goes on. There is an organ instrumental in the middle, bringing the volume right down by degrees, leading into the section sung by the tenors and contraltos. This section is somewhat medieval in mood, neither glorious nor gloomy, and it builds into a crescendo gradually, slowly climbing up in pitch too as the other choir members join in. From here it builds, coming full circle and returning to the opening phrase, before building once again to a second climax, on which, unlike the Blitz Fantasy adagio for example, it finishes.

**Bach – Ave Maria**

_When first heard: _In a live televised concert

_Favourite time to listen: _Always.

_Critique: _It opens with the most breath-taking, soft, runny piano sequence. Then the most beautiful voice – powerful, pure, gently tremulous and tender above all creeps in with the melody and lyrics. Strings edge in under the vocal and piano parts, but so subtly that their effect is only to make the sound fuller and not draw away from the vocalist, who is the beginning and the end of the entire piece, and everything in between. As the melody gently begins to rise and the orchestral and piano backing swells, one can only marvel at the singer's ability to reach the high notes and execute the impossibly large intervals whilst maintaining perfect pitch and never at any point losing the silky, full quality to her voice. As the piece reaches its climax the voice becomes truly an instrument in its own right, soaring high above the orchestra. The final note is so perfect and so pure that it can render even a high functioning sociopath utterly incapable of doing anything except for sitting, slack jawed, in awe.

What a truly extraordinary singer Irene Adler is.


	80. Blog Comments

Charming, Sherlock. Really tactful and encouraging. I just wish you knew how fucking arrogant you sound sometimes. Most of the time actually.

And you, John? Am I supposed to regard you as intelligent and wise, following a comment like that? I'm tempted to flag it for abuse.

Go ahead. It won't change the fact that what you've written has probably lost you a great many followers, and upset and disappointed a lot of people who admired you.

Why should I care? It's up to them if they want to follow the blog. I don't have to write to please them. If I did that I'd be endlessly churning out posts about fast food and how to apply make-up and be popular, and what I think of the latest 'number' by Pixie whatever-her-name-is.

So that's still your opinion of us then, despite everything?

Given your opening comment, yes.

Fine.

Good. That's got rid of him.

-/-/-

Probably lying in a beanbag eating strawberries with his GIRLFRIEND while I work out how to prevent a baby being murdered by her step-father. Well at least I can get a bit of peace and quiet to get on with things for once.

I only used him as back-up anyway.

It's always a mistake to try to inject life and colour into reports or reviews. Stick to the facts.


	81. Blog Comments 2

I wonder if he _will _come back?

-/-/-

Alright, here goes. I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I swore at you and called you arrogant.

You were angry.

To be fair though it was understandable that I'd be a bit miffed.

Why?

For one thing your reaction to my post was like killing a fly with a sledgehammer. For another I felt like you were dismissing my life and views as irrelevant.

But they _were_ irrelevant.

If you have the right to post whatever you like and expect it to be respected then so do I.

But I was saying was logical, whilst what you said was clearly nonsense!

There you go again being a hypocrite!

First I'm arrogant and then I'm a hypocrite. Explain yourself.

Modern music is "Endless drivel" – hardly scientific or analytical! "This is a piece that constantly surprises the listener", i.e. YOU. Your critiques on the Gilbert and Sullivan piece and the Ave Maria. And don't even get me started about the comparison between the Due South song and the Brandenburg concerto – that was just embarrassing!

Not exactly following your own logic about respect are you? First, I specifically pointed out that I was breaking my own rules with the Ave Maria and the Gilbert and Sullivan.

So it's ok for you to break your own rules but nobody else then?

And secondly, modern music IS nothing but drivel – it's bastardised classical music that's been dumbed down and disguised as 'original', and it's also arrogant because it thinks it can make classical music that has lasted for centuries 'better' by adding in electronic things that weren't invented when the music was written, simply because they can!

You know what, Sherlock? I'm not sure I even want to continue this conversation. You're in no position to talk about objectivity, quality or analysis. All you're doing is ranting, even if there may be some truth in what you say.

Well at any rate I made a better attempt at being analytical than you.

Oh shut up. What you did by trying to remove all the 'life and colour' was alienate anyone who tried to read the thing, and made yourself look incredibly snooty.

When is it going to sink in, John? I. Don't. Care. If what I say is true then eventually people will come around, and it'll last forever. If it's not true then it won't.

We'll see about that.


	82. Blog Comments 3

The sad thing is that you won't even properly TRY modern music. You probably never even listened to the album I gave you back in January. I bet I can think of at least five songs you'd be able to identify with.

John, I'm thirty-five. Of course I've tried modern music. I have to put up with it every time I go into a shop. Besides, you're going off topic – we're supposed to be talking about the blog posts, not music in general.

The music is what the posts are all about!

Anyway I'm not entirely ignorant about classical music. One memorial I went to had a rendition of the 'Pie Jesu' from the Faure Requiem. And I've heard Grieg's score for Pier Gint.

It's 'Gynt', not 'Gint'.

Does that make a difference to the music?

Brilliant, John! Now you're focussing on the things that really matter!

No need for the patronisation.

That was supposed to be a compliment.

Oh.

Well for what it's worth, I do agree with you about _some _modern music. Just not all.

I suppose that's the best I can hope for, isn't it?

As a scientist it's all you _should_ hope for. You of all people should know it's wrong to generalise.

Yes but this generalisation was made with a great deal of thought.

Even you don't have infinite knowledge. Things change.

People wanting to make easy money doesn't change.

That's true, but some of them really believe in what they do.

Hmm. Maybe.

I suppose that's the best I can hope for, isn't it?

Ha ha.


	83. Blog Comments 4

John, I've got an idea! 'The Nutcracker' is playing most of the Christmas season. I can get us tickets!

Ballet…?

Why not? The music's by Tchaikovsky and the choreography is extraordinary. Where else do you get that quality of music and visual art combined? I'll pay. Think of it as a Christmas gift.

Well…that's very kind of you! And if I were to arrange a 'Christmas gift' would you enter into it positively and with an open mind?

Hmm. It depends on what it is.

Fair is fair, Sherlock.

If you agree that we'll agree to differ if I don't like your gift or if you don't like mine then I suppose I can give it a try. I can always do work from my phone if the performance you picked is too awful.

Would you just happily accept it if _I_ did that?

No but I _know _The Nutcracker is worth watching.

Well so is 'Les Miserables'. For a musical it has a lot of history to it. The score is by a French composer so there's a feeling of authenticity. It's adapted from a classic novel by Victor Hugo about the early 19th century French Revolution and the people involved, and it's the longest running production in London.

If a case comes up I'll _have _to work from my phone.

You know that's against theatre rules, Sherlock. There'll be other cases and the police aren't computely stupid.

That's a debatable point.

You've done it before.

No promises, mind.

Knew I'd win you over in the end!


	84. Blog Comments 5

Right, two tickets for Les Mis booked. We're going tomorrow.

Three you mean.

Three?

Mrs Hudson.

Oh, she's in on this too?

Why wouldn't she be?

I…didn't think…

Don't worry. I have friends in high places. And I've already booked The Nutcracker.

I'm surprised you agreed to go to Les Mis first.

Probably best that way around. If I hate Les Mis we can all enjoy The Nutcracker.

Ah. I see.


	85. A Holmesian Christmas

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

I'd been going to begin this post by saying that this year's Christmas at 221B Baker Street was pretty uneventful, but as of 12 O'clock in the afternoon on Christmas day, that would be untrue.

Perhaps I'd better start at the beginning. We had ordered the presents for Mrs Hudson's stocking in advance, and I had packed them into a pillowcase the previous night. We'd planned to hide it for her this time, given the unexpected events of last year, but it seemed she was determined to remain on top of us both (figuratively speaking). Sherlock, having been out on some case for five nights in a row, was sleeping late for once. As for me, I woke up early on Christmas morning and took the pillowcase with the presents in to the living room to hide. Before I looked out the window I knew it was going to be a green, indoor Christmas – or at least I sincerely hoped so. You never can tell with Sherlock though. I could hear the rain pattering the windows, and the wind whistling down the chimney into the fireplace.

I came into the living room, stocking in hand, and didn't think about the fact that the fire was lit and blazing away merrily. Had I thought about it, I probably wouldn't have jumped out my skin when I saw the Mrs Hudson putting croissants on plates which were sitting on the coffee table. There were also two stockings – one leaning against each end of the sofa. I began to tiptoe out. I got halfway to the doorway when I heard a voice behind me say: "Happy Christmas, John dear! What's that in your hand?" I froze, then realised the game was up and turned slowly. "You know," I said, "I haven't stayed in many rented places, but at a wild guess I'd say all this was going beyond the duties of a landlady." I made a gesture which was meant to encompass all of the fire, the breakfast and the stockings.

"I'm your friend, dear, not just your landlady," Mrs Hudson replied, patting me on the shoulder. Then she called out into the hallway: "Sherlock! In here now!" For a moment there was silence, and then a shuffling noise, and a wild-haired, bleary-eyed Sherlock wandered into the room.

"Happy Christmas, love," said Mrs Hudson, and she put her arm round him and guided him to the sofa. He gazed around, still half asleep, before his eyes fixed on the croissants. "Oh," he said, and rubbed his face.

"Sit yourself down," said Mrs Hudson, adding: "You too Doctor Watson."

Once seated Sherlock caught sight of the glasses of orange juice which Mrs Hudson had also laid out on the coffee table, and picking up one of these he promptly poured it over his upturned face. Instantly he was fully awake, and his eyes, now keen and clear, rested on the stockings. "Might as well get them over with first," he remarked, pulling one towards him at random. He picked out a Satsuma and tossed it to one side, then tore open the first present. It was a pink, rose-scented pot pouree.

"Sherlock…that's _Mrs Hudson's _stocking! Come on, do the thing properly!" I grabbed the stocking and present off him and handed them to Mrs Hudson, who opened the packet the pot pouree was in.

"Well no matter who unwrapped it, it's a wonderful smell! Rose scented, I think," she remarked, and she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

"Another satsuma, and some chocolate coins – how traditional," said Sherlock, skimming them off the top of his stocking. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson!"

After discovering my satsuma and coins too I pulled out the first of my presents and unwrapped it. "Indoor sparklers," I read. " Should be interesting…Sherlock, chuck us a lighter or something."

"I use nicotine patches, you know that, John."

"Well I can hardly use nicotine patches to set one of these off, can I? Alright…matches then."

He threw them over, and I set one of the sparklers alight. It fizzed in my hand, making prickling sensations on my wrist where the sparks landed, and I walked round the room waving it, enjoying the patterns that the after visions made. As I neared Sherlock's chemistry equipment I heard a sharp voice – "John, ca…"

POP!

The sound was sharp, sudden and high pitched, and I dropped the sparkler, which promptly went out.

"Thought that might happen," Sherlock added, craning over to see what the damage was.

"Not life or death is it?" I asked as I picked a cracked test tube off the floor and set it the right way up.

"Hmm? Oh no, just a crystal reaction forming hydrogen. Highly flammable. I warned you just there – pay more attention next time."

"Oh thank you dears – I've always wanted to try watercolour!" Interjected Mrs Hudson, as she unwrapped the set of watercolour paints in her stocking.

"Mrs Hudson," said Sherlock, eying her intently, "I deduce that at some point in your life you're going to re-marry."

"Really dear?" Mrs Hudson swept a glance over her hands and clothes. "I had no plans to…."

"Yes…and to a _soldier_, if I'm not mistaken – and I never am…"

There was a slightly awkward silence as my eyes met with Mrs Hudson's.

"How do you know?" I asked him. "More make-up? Some kind of regimental accessory?"

"Your orange pips," Sherlock replied, nodding at Mrs Hudson's plate, on which an orange skin and three pips were resting.

I sat back down on the sofa. Sherlock had unwrapped a tiny gold miniature violin and was examining its tuning knobs. He stroked its strings, turned it around and then looked up at Mrs Hudson with twinkling eyes. It was then that I noticed the watch on his wrist.

"Since when did you have that?"

"Since now," he replied. "I expect you've got one too. Open another present and you'll see."

Obediently I tore the next present in the stocking open, and a watch box came out. "The Really British Watch: Multiple alarms…automatically adjusts time zones, leap years and daylight saving time…luminous numbers…works underwater…" I read out, before taking it out its box. The strap was soft black leather, and the buttons and rim of the screen were metallic blue. The buckle of the strap was silver and gleamed in the firelight.

"Only I – I mean _Santa _– had noticed that you'd been having trouble with your old one jamming. I thought probably that trip through the Thames didn't do it any favours," explained Mrs Hudson.

"Mrs Hudson…I…I don't know what to say," I stuttered.

"Then open your last stocking present – Sherlock has," she said.

And he had. It was a puzzle, and it looked like a pretty hard one too. The pieces consisted solely of tiles on which were printed multiple beetles, but in different colours and combinations. Sherlock was hunched over, tongue between his lips, his steely eyes darting back and forth and his spidery fingers deftly moving pieces around. "What've you got to do?" I enquired. He was too preoccupied to answer, so I drew the instruction booklet over carefully, so as not to upset the pieces. "Create a puzzle of six by six tiles, in which none of the same types of beetle exist in horizontal, vertical or diagonal rows." I've seen Sherlock do hundred piece jigsaws in five minutes flat, so for him to have only managed to fit together three tiles in roughly two minutes must have meant the puzzle was exceptionally hard.

"I'll wash up, dear, you open your last present!" Mrs Hudson said as she saw me gathering the breakfast things.

"No, you made breakfast," I retorted, standing up, putting a hand on each of her shoulders and pushing her back down onto the sofa. "Ooh, careful of my hip!" she said, rubbing it. "I should be having my soother for it now. But what's a few minutes going to hurt?"

"It's all rubbish anyway," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sorry?"

"All a load of rubbish."

"It's homeopathic," she protested, "A viable alternative treatment option. It's done wonders for me – I used to struggle with stairs and now I'm up and down them all day, no trouble at all!"

"Well either the soother _isn't _homeopathic, or you're doing something else which _is _having an effect," said Sherlock, and he stopped the puzzle briefly to eyeball her as he spoke. "Homeopathic medicine is an oxymoron. Anything that says it's homeopathic basically means it's pharmacologically inactive. It's just water and probably a bit of sugar and fruit flavouring. A waste of money, isn't that right, John?"

"Not getting involved," I said, perceiving Mrs Hudson's dejected expression. I stacked the plates and took them through to the kitchen. As a doctor I knew Sherlock was right from a scientific point of view, but Mrs Hudson was clearly convinced, and I of all people know that sometimes a psychosomatic effect is all that's needed to re-shape a perception of one's body.

"Who's for tea? Coffee?"

"Tea," came Sherlock's voice.

"No you're alright love – thanks!" Mrs Hudson called through, as always quick to regain good spirits.

By the time I had washed the plates, knives and glasses and come back through, Mrs Hudson had opened her last stocking present; a packet of herb-box seeds. "Those are going to be perfect for the spring!" she said, "Thank you – _both _of you!" and she patted Sherlock's shoulder as he worked on the puzzle, and on his behalf I performed the ritual where a person kisses the air either side of each of a woman's cheeks. Strange how ingratiating he can be when he wants to; but right now, thanks to the puzzle, he was utterly oblivious to the world.

"Well?" Mrs Hudson said, with an air of expectation, "Aren't you going to open _your _last present?

"…I can't do it." It was Sherlock who spoke. We both turned to face him. He was staring at the puzzle with a look of profound indignation and confusion on his face. "I've tried every possible combination by a process of elimination, and it just logically doesn't work." He sat back, folded his arms and looked from one to the other of us. I waited with twitching lips. "It's flawed. They've made it wrong. You can probably get your money back if you have the receipt."

"Oh now, I'm sure it's alright," said Mrs Hudson, "Let me have a go."

"Try all you like, but believe me, it won't work," Sherlock insisted. He stretched out a leg and rested his foot on the coffee table, which shook a little. That coffee table has withstood far too much abuse over the past two years.

It was oddly disappointing to see Sherlock fail, even at something as trivial as a puzzle game.

"Look," I said, "If this was a case, and you couldn't solve it, would you say it was flawed?"

"Of course not," he said, looking at me as if I was mad.

"What would you say?"

"I'd say it was a work of genius."

"Well then," I said. Sherlock held my gaze, smiled, sighed, nodded and turned his eyes back to the puzzle. "I mean, do you have to even do it by logic?" I continued, "Surely you could do it just by observation?" Sherlock looked blank. "Ok…let's assume the puzzle was made by printing the picture onto the cardboard, and then cutting the cardboard into tiles. If no two tiles are the same, then surely no two beetles are the same."

"So if no two beetles are the same…" Sherlock continued slowly,

"…Then where the beetles cross the tiles there is only going to be one tile combination in which the picture across the edges matches up perfectly," I finished.

"Excellent, John!"

"Meretricious," I replied, grinning.

Sherlock brought his face close to the puzzle, and I could see him carefully scanning each tile. Within seconds he pounced and removed six. "Stupid!" he berated himself, "Twist this round…and that one sooo…and this one here…then these three one, and two, and three…" he fitted them into their places, "…All done!"

Mrs Hudson and I applauded, and he flushed with pleasure.

At that moment the buzzer went, and Mrs Hudson, being nearest the door, went down to answer it as we packed up the puzzle. When she returned she was carrying three envelopes. "One for each of us," She said. "Strange," she added, "I thought the post office was closed on Sundays, especially Christmas day…"

Once again I saw the tell-tale twinkle in Sherlock's eye which signified that he was party to something we didn't know about. I took my envelope and tore it open:

"Mr Mycroft Holmes requests the pleasure of Mrs Hudson's and Doctor Watson's company at his flat, 12:00pm, December 25th 2011".

"Are yours from Mycroft too?" I asked. They nodded. "He doesn't give an address."

"No, he'll send a taxi round to collect us."

"I thought you said he was at Pall Mall. That's walking distance."

"But he's Mycroft," said Sherlock dismissively, "Leg-work wouldn't occur to him unless all mechanical transport broke down – and then he'd probably take a horse. Well, I'll be ready in ten minutes." With that he stood up and stepped onto the coffee table, by way of getting across the room. There was a crunch and a simultaneous cry of surprise from Sherlock and Mrs Hudson as the table finally gave way under his weight. After he had regained his balance there was a slightly shocked silence. Then: "You know, they really should build these things stronger – someone could get hurt," Sherlock said, giving the wreckage a kick, before extracting himself and beating a hasty retreat to his room.

-/-/-

We stood outside the flat, waiting for the alleged taxi. Sherlock had dressed in his usual suit, bat-like coat and blue scarf. I was carrying the bag full of presents, and Sherlock had his violin case strapped to his back.

"Think you'll be needing that?" I asked.

"You never know when a violin may come in handy," he said, looking at me out the corner of his eye.

It began to rain. I wrapped my arms around myself and paced in a circle to take my mind off it. Sherlock scanned the road. Mrs Hudson put up her collapsible umbrella and I ducked under it.

"You're sure he ordered a cab?" I asked.

"I know Mycroft," he replied.

Two minutes later, I was getting really impatient and uncomfortable. "I'm going back in," I said, and I turned to the door.

"It's here!" Mrs Hudson called as I turned my back, and sure enough the cab had pulled up along the opposite kerb and was performing a U-turn.

"About time!" I grumbled.

Once Sherlock had given his name to the cab driver (and been assured that he really was harmless), he waved us both in before following. He sat on one of the pull-down seats facing the rear, and Mrs Hudson had to cinch her legs to the side to make enough room for his knees. As the cab drove, he scrolled through pages on his phone. "Don't you get carsick?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Carsick? No. Not for ten years anyway. I trained myself out of it."

"Don't suppose you could pass on some tips?" I asked, rhetorically.

His response was preoccupied. "Always be aware of your surroundings and direction of movement, and you'll be fine."

The rest of our journey was spent in silence, as we watched bedraggled passers-by scuttling down the street and getting splashed by traffic. It wasn't a long journey, but the rain had slowed the traffic and caused quite a bit of congestion. It had also blurred the view, so there were fewer landmarks to orientate by. Even Sherlock's eyelids started to droop in the stillness and unfocussedness of the trip, and the movement of the cab. Presently it pulled up at a kerb. "Here we are," the cab driver said. Sherlock put his signature in for the taxi account. The cab had parked directly in front of a puddle. Sherlock lept nimbly over it. I followed, before Mrs Hudson picked her way around it, holding onto my hand for support.

Mycroft's flat was only really a flat in name, in that it was spread over two floors, and he didn't share his front door with any other flats. His windows had net curtains on, through which I could see a mellow, yellow light. The door didn't have a buzzer, and instead had a silver knocker in the shape of an olive wreath. As I approached Sherlock whispered a word of warning into my ear: "When you knock, be reasonably gentle. People have tried to steal the knocker, and he's fitted an alarm behind the hinge." Cautiously I lifted the handle and knocked three times. For a moment there was silence, and then slow footsteps to the door. A lock being turned and the suited figure of Mycroft was framed in the doorway. "Come in, come in," he greeted us, with that strangely false-sounding courtesy that we've all had to learn to look past. "Wipe your feet on the mat and take your shoes off, if you wouldn't mind," he said. "It's an unnecessary accumulation of dirt, wearing shoes indoors."

Sherlock seemed to know his way around the flat very well for someone who had only been reconciled with his brother for a little under a year. I suspected that Mycroft, working in the government since the age of nineteen and being fairly set in his ways, had lived here ever since he had left home. Sherlock kicked off his shoes and left them in a heap on the hall floor, before hanging up his coat and scarf on a set of brass pegs and venturing through a door immediately to the left of the front door. We followed suit, and found ourselves in a long, narrow and extremely cosy living room. The carpet was thick and cream coloured. There were windows in the wall to the left of the door and the far wall opposite it. In the wall immediately in front of us there was a fireplace, larger than that of 221B, with a light brown wooden mantelpiece on which sat a simple garland of holly. On the right hand side of the fireplace was a small, simply decorated Christmas tree with a few presents under it. In front of the fireplace was a coffee table, covered by a red cloth. On this there was a bowl of crisps and a tray with drinks and glasses, as well as a game of peg solitaire. "This takes me back," said Sherlock, who was sitting curled up on the sofa in a very little-brother-ish manner. He pulled the game onto his knee, and started to play by jumping one peg over the other and removing the jumpee from the board. "Yes, I haven't forgotten," he exclaimed, as he removed the final peg, leaving just one in the centre. He looked up and saw us all watching. "I worked it out when I was fourteen."

A crimson sofa with blue velvet cushions was set against the wall with the door in, to the right of the door. To either side of this sofa there were tall standing lamps, and to the right of the sofa, set against the same wall, was a shiny, black upright piano, with a piano stool tucked under it.

"Didn't know you played," I remarked, as I arranged our presents.

"Oh…I dabble. I dabble," said Mycroft.

"That's a lie," piped up Sherlock, "He passed grade eight with a hundred and forty one."

"Twenty two years ago," said Mycroft, with an edge in his voice. Despite being officially reconciled each still got on the other's nerves, and there was a keen edge of competition in their interactions.

"They asked you to play at Saint Paul's last year," Sherlock added, determined to have the last word.

"Yes, well…" Mycroft cast around for a subject change and fixed on me. "John – mulled wine or white?"

"I'll have mulled, thanks," I said, and Mycroft poured it out.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"I'll take a little white – thank you Mr Holmes," she said, and I watched Sherlock cringe.

"Please, call me Mycroft," Mycroft replied, more as an instruction than something to put her at ease, as he handed her the glass. Sherlock had already helped himself to mulled, but it was sitting ignored on the coffee table in favour of the open violin case sitting across his lap. He was applying resin to the bow.

"I have the lunch the oven," Mycroft said. "It should be ready in a little while. Make yourselves comfortable." With that he left the room.

"He can cook as well?" I asked Sherlock quietly.

"He has a weight problem and a history of overeating, of _course _he can cook," Sherlock replied with scorn.

"Never cease to amaze me," I commented, raising my eyebrows and taking another sip of wine.

For a few minutes the three of us sat and talked about nothing very much. The atmosphere became pretty strained, until Mycroft returned and had the idea of putting a CD of choral music on in the background, and we all felt a little more festive. At least then Sherlock was happily absorbed, sitting on the sofa with his violin across his knee, conducting along with an imaginary baton and occasionally plucking out snatches of melody.

Mrs Hudson and I talked about her Christmases past. As a child her parents had a holiday house in Dartmoor, where the family gathered annually. It had been off-road, and had no electricity and no television. She and her brother and cousins had spent their time having sledging races down the hill behind the house, or attempting to walk up the icy river without either slipping or breaking the ice and falling in. Now her mother was dead and her father, who had a stroke five years back, was in a home. She still saw her brother from time to time, but his job took him to Australia for long stretches, and her cousins had moved away and had families of their own. She still got the odd photo, or round robin letter, but largely the family unit had disintegrated. It got me thinking – Sherlock must be one of the least family-orientated people, and his family was anything but typically functional, but at the same time, at least two of the members had regular contact of a tolerable nature. That was more than could be said for me or Mrs Hudson.

"It's all ready," Mycroft said at last, coming through – and when I saw him I had to bite my lip hard to keep from smiling; he was wearing a chef's hat and large white apron.

"Mycroft take those off, you look ridiculous," Sherlock said without looking up from plucking at his violin. Mycroft looked comically deflated, and I felt a pang of pity for him.

We all filed through. Mycroft's kitchen was much smaller than the living room, with a round table squashed up against the wall.

"Oh, I'll sit there," Mrs Hudson volunteered. "Then you can all get what you need easier!"

"No," said Mycroft with, I suspect, unintentional harshness. He saw Mrs Hudson's startled expression and softened.

"Very sorry, Mrs…?"

"…Hudson," she supplied.

"…Precisely. Very sorry, Mrs Hudson. It's simply that if I were to have everything I wanted I would undo two years of strict weight management in one single evening. If I am to stick to my plan today, I must sit in the seat that affords me the hardest access to the food." He looked at her with sparkling eyes, allowing and encouraging a smile, which she gave eventually, and he returned. Suddenly he seemed less false and more warm.

And what a Christmas lunch it was! Roast potatoes, sweet potatoes, parsnips, turnips, carrots, brussel sprouts, turkey with bacon, stuffing, chipolatas, cranberry sauce, bread sauce, gravy…I pigged out on potatoes and turkey with cranberry sauce. I've never been much of a vegetable person. Mrs Hudson had dinky portions, until Mycroft insisted she take more, to which she had no objection. Wedged into the corner, he could reach the vegetables and chipolatas, and asked not to be offered anything more substantial, because then he wouldn't stop. As for Sherlock, he piled his plate high and then had second helps. Just like he could talk well enough in certain situations, and indeed be very ingratiating, he also had a mammoth appetite when he chose, and this year he did choose. His choices ranged across the whole spectrum, but his favourites seemed to be the glazed vegetables and the turkey, which he wolfed down. And then afterwards there was syrup sponge, which Mycroft had to leave the room while we ate. Afterwards he called Mrs Hudson through alone, and there was a whispered conversation. Sherlock craned to hear, but I don't think he did any better than me. Then they both returned. "Your very good landlady has promised to take away the remains of the lunch to keep me from being tempted," he announced. "And now I suggest we exchange presents."

We made our way back through and sat expectantly, but none of us wanted to be the first to give our presents, so Mycroft had to kickstart things. He went to the tree, took out a very small wrapped present and handed it to Sherlock. "These may come in useful," he said, and I detected a slightly cryptic tone in his voice.

Sherlock tore it open irreverently. For a moment he was silent, and though his eyes betrayed his joy at the contents of the present, his face remained impassive. "She's needed new strings for a while now," he said simply, and laid them to one side. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft merely smiled, and then he gave the second present, which he had been holding while Sherlock opened his, to Mrs Hudson. She opened it carefully, without tearing the paper, and took out a small box which contained an even smaller bottle. But for such a small bottle it gave rise to quite a reaction. "Oh Mr…Mycroft…it's wonderful! It's perfect!" She said, spraying it and turning her face up, sniffing. The room filled with a light, sweet scent. "Woodland! I love nature, but I don't get out nearly as often as I'd like. This is going to remind me of it all the time! Thank you!" and she sprang up and kissed him on the cheek. Oh God the look on Mycroft's face…I would have happily sold Sherlock for a camera at that moment – even a cheap disposable one.

When the deep crimson colour had faded and Mycroft had regained the power of speech, Mrs Hudson dug under the tree and found her present to Mycroft, which was just an envelope. "I know it's very little in return, and it's a bit…well…unorthodox," she warned him. He opened the envelope very precisely, and pulled out a card. By now Holmes had prised the strings off his violin and was fitting the new ones in place.

"This gift will go further than any material present," he read. "As part of the World Food Programme, you have donated a flock of chickens and a cockerel to a third world family, providing a sustainable supply of meat, eggs and livestock." He looked up. His face looked strained and when he spoke, his voice sounded strained as well. "It's good to remember those less fortunate than us at Christmas," was all he said. I glanced at Sherlock for a clue. He was twitching and wearing the minute expressions he has when he's desperately holding back laughter. I smiled. All was well.

"Here's your present," said Mrs Hudson, putting something large, soft and bulky into my arms.

"Oh, thanks," I said, coming back to the real world. I peeled back the paper and boggled. Inside was a knee-length coat, dark green, made of oilskin, lined with felt. Heavy, thick, utterly waterproof.

"I wanted to give it to you waiting for the taxi, but I managed to resist," she said coyly. I pulled it fully out of the paper and unfolded it. Sherlock looked up and his gaze fixed on the coat. "Oooh, you beauty," he remarked of the coat, and looked up at me expectantly. Taking the hint I slipped my arms through its sleeves and fastened the zip. It was tight, and there wasn't much pocket space, but it was certainly snug and had a reassuring weight to it.

"How do I look?" I asked the party, and turned for them to see properly.

"Very fetching," Mrs Hudson said.

"Very waterproof," Mycroft said.

"Very John-ish," Sherlock said, which I took to be a compliment, but you can never tell with him.

As it was so warm in Mycroft's living room, I peeled off the coat and folded it up for safekeeping. Then I retrieved my present for Mrs Hudson, bumping heads with herself as she bent down to reach under the tree at the same time as me. "Oops, sorry! You first, dear," she said, laughing, and I handed her a present from me. She unwrapped it and took out a small digital block, with a screen and buttons on the front. "Little old-fashioned," I admitted, "But it might just save your life."

"What is it?" she asked, frowning and turning it over.

"It's a pager. I've got myself one too, and Sherlock," I said.

Sherlock looked up at the mention of his name. "Really?" he asked (Somehow, by accident, I had successfully kept him in the dark about this).

"Yep. Not quite sure how to use it yet, but once it's set up we'll all be able to message each other. You're an easy target, living in the same flat as us and...well…being a friend of ours as well."

Mrs Hudson looked touched, and she reached out and patted my arm. "Very thoughtful of you, dear," she said, and the understatement made me smile. "Now," she added. "Sherlock! Your present." She handed it to him and he unwrapped it.

It was a magnifying glass, but not just any old magnifying glass. The lens was thick and round, with an extra-thick middle, and a handle and rim made of real horn, varnished faultlessly. He turned it over and over, and made to whistle in admiration. He's never been able to whistle before…but this time a shrill note came out, and he actually jumped in alarm! Then his face broke into the biggest grin I had ever seen from him. He puckered his lips again, and repeated the noise. Then he did it again. "Bet you won't try and forget that now you can do it," I commented.

"Shut up John," he replied, but I have learnt, for the most part, to allow such rudeness to slide off my back. "Anyway," he continued. "I'm going to give you my present next." And with that he threw himself onto his stomach to search under the tree. Seconds later he stood up, panting slightly and plonked a small, square parcel into Mrs Hudson's hands. "Oh…thank you!" she said, "This is really too much!"

"Well I got it cheap on ebay for two pounds…"

"Shh!" I hissed, "You don't have to tell her!"

"Why not?" He shrugged. "It's the truth."

I gave up, and Mrs Hudson opened the present. It was a CD of favourite pieces by Edward Elgar. "Thanks, dear!" she said, and she hugged him. Mycroft had never seen this and glanced at me with eyes like saucers. I simply raised my eyebrows with what I hoped was a 'sometimes when he's in the mood he'll do it on a whim' expression.

Now the biggest presents left appeared to be identical. I realised, with a jolt, that one of these was my present to Sherlock. I pointed this out. "Oh," he said, "So they are. Well…we'd better give them together in that case."

He gave his to Mycroft, and I gave mine to him, feeling rather foolish. They both opened their bullet proof vests, and examined them with various sounds of appreciation. "And may you never have to use them," I said.

My present to Mycroft felt quite lame in comparison to the other presents; a copy of "Schott's Miscellany", but he opened it and pondered over it for a few minutes in silence, before thanking me. "Unlike my brother I enjoy collecting trivia," he said.

"You're omniscient," Sherlock cut in.

"Sherlock…" he said in a warning voice.

But Sherlock was enjoying winding his brother up. "You are. You're Google, only you don't get power cuts and your search results can't be manipulated. That's why the government employ you" Mycroft just sighed in resignation and didn't bother arguing.

The presents seemed to be finished, when Mrs Hudson spoke up: "Mycroft, Sherlock! Where are your presents to John?" There was a silence.

The brothers looked at each other, and then at me.

"You really don't have to…" I began.

"Oh no we insist," said Sherlock graciously, but once again with that conspiratorial tone in his voice. He twiddled the tuning knobs of his violin and played a couple of notes.

"I suppose we'll have to think on our feet, won't we, Mein Kampf?" said Mycroft.

"I think we will, Google."

I looked from one to the other and tried to work out what was going on, but their faces were absolutely expressionless. Then, with perfect unity, they crossed the room to the music corner. Mycroft sat down at the piano, and Sherlock took up his violin. Mrs Hudson and I waited silently.

They began to play. Now, I've seen Sherlock scratch away at that instrument into the small hours when he's thinking hard. I've seen him eating breakfast with one hand, with the violin sitting on the table beside him, and he'll randomly scrape the bow back and forth without looking, setting my teeth on edge, just for a bit of background noise. And I've seen him play for his own entertainment, and occasionally to me as a peace offering, but this was entirely different. They may get up each other's noses in other areas of life, but in music they formed a perfect team. Their rhythm was impeccable, and they fitted with each other's interpretations perfectly, even during periods of _[SH: Rubato]_, sharing and changing control of the melody between them appropriately and spontaneously.

They seemed to be playing a light gigue in G major with a slight medieval feel to it. Sherlock held the tune at first while Mycroft accompanied, and then the melody switched to Mycroft's left hand, with the right hand adding decoration and Sherlock accompanying on the violin. And then the key changed to a slower, sadder E minor, before returning to a slightly altered variation of the main tune, and changing key again upwards with Mycroft holding the tune and Sherlock providing a baseline. Finally, after a modulation (is that the right word, Sherlock?) _[SH: Yes] _down it finished with a reprise of the original melody, and Sherlock and Mycroft ended the last note with a flourish. We both burst into applause and they bowed. "That was _lovely_!" Mrs Hudson gushed.

"Well it's not very original, but we tried to make it simple enough to follow, and the sort of thing John would like…" Mycroft said.

My head spun. "You two composed that?"

They nodded.

"That's where you've been those last nights?" I asked, addressing Sherlock.

"Yes, John".

"And er, that's my Christmas present?"

Another nod from them both. I swallowed, realised I had to blink a few times, and let that sink in. "Um…I really…I…thanks. It was…quite incredible," I got out, and then gave up and fell silent.

My silence lasted until we heard three big knocks on the door. Mycroft went to answer it, his face clouded in puzzlement. We all waited, and he came in with three more parcels. One was addressed to Mycroft and was long and thin. The other was addressed to Sherlock, and was small and soft. A third was addressed to me.

"Be careful," said Sherlock, "It might be another attack." It was then that I saw Mycroft's hands had scar tissue on the backs, similar to very old burn scars. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. "No," said Mycroft and held up the package. "Look at the writing."

Sherlock glanced up, and wrinkled his nose. "She never sends us things!"

"Who?"

"Our Mother," said Sherlock.

"She sent me the code last year," I pointed out.

"I'm sure she's just trying to do right by us," said Mycroft. "This was your grandfather's," he read on a slip of paper that fell out as he pulled the wrapping off a telescoping rod. Included with it was a tin, in which were several brightly coloured flies and a couple of hooks. There was also a lead sinker and a red and white float.

"She should know I detest legwork!" Mycroft muttered indignantly.

Meanwhile Sherlock had unwrapped a strange tweed hat. "Your Grandfather's deerstalker," read his note. "Why would I want a deerstalker?" He tried it on, but with his suit and his skinny, intense face he looked completely ridiculous. Mycroft, on the other hand, looked really comical and, as Mrs Hudson put it, 'snug as a bug' in it. "Let's swap," he suggested. "After all, a fishing rod can pull up far more interesting things that just fish." And with that they exchanged presents.

"What's yours?" Mrs Hudson asked, and I remembered the present in my hand.

"Why did she get you something?" Sherlock pondered.

"Maybe she sees me as your sort of brother…"

"Oh please!" Sherlock laughed derisively and then got up and excused himself, leaving the room for a few minutes. While he was gone I examined my present. It was a leather bound book with thick, crinkly pages. I opened it, and Mycroft glanced over, and covered his eyes with his hand in despair.

"She's sent you a family photo album!" he groaned.

I opened the first page. The first photo showed a hospital bed, and on it sat a small, fat boy of about seven, with piercing blue eyes and moppish brown hair. On his head was a dressing and on the dressing was some sort of sticker. Despite having grown older and more angular Mycroft's eyes and smile hadn't changed a great deal. In one hand he held a toy music box with a turning handle, and on his lap there was a mass of blankets, with a tiny, wrinkly red hand poking out. Beside him lay a young woman with bouncy, shoulder-length brown hair, a roman nose and the wide, crooked smile that both Sherlock and Mycroft had inherited. Under the photograph was a caption: "Left to right; Mycroft holding Sherlock, Maria, 6th January 1976."

I turned the page, enchanted. There was a long, thin baby lying on its back in a bath with a few centimetres of water. He was naked, sucking on a sponge and twisting his feet together. "Sherlock, 3 ½ months, bath at Granny's. And on the next page, two boys on a beach, facing the sea with their backs to the camera. They were holding hands. One was about nine and wearing shorts and sandals, and the younger, a toddler, wore nothing at all. "Sherlock and Mycroft, 1978" read the caption. At that moment there were footsteps coming down the stairs. "Quickly," Mycroft hissed, "Put it away or he'll probably burn it!" Thinking on impulse I stuffed it into the pocket of my new coat and folded it up just as Sherlock came into the room. He saw our guilty expressions, and looked from one of us to the other and back. He frowned, but decided not to investigate. It must have been the gigantic Christmas lunch…

"Well," Sherlock said brightly, "It's been good, but I'm going back now. Might be a case on hand and we can't miss that, can we John?"

I stood up obediently, and Mrs Hudson followed suit. Mycroft fetched us bin liners to take our presents back in, and as Sherlock and I put on our shoes and coats Mrs Hudson helped Mycroft pack away the remainder of the Christmas lunch.

"We'll show ourselves out," I assured him, and then shook his hand. "Thanks, that was great."

"It was a pleasure," said Mycroft, with sincerity.

As we were walking down the drive Mrs Hudson caught a glimpse of something rectangular on the pavement. "Ooh, what's this?" she said, and she bent down to read the label on the top. "For me?" Before anyone could stop her she'd picked the cardboard shoebox up and lifted the lid. Inside there seemed to be course white crystals of some kind. And among them were two flesh coloured, rubbery things. Mrs Hudson picked one out and turned it over in her hands…and her scream echoed all up and down the street.


	86. The Contents of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

When Australia is involved in a case, even with aeroplanes and email, you know there's going to be a lot of waiting. Which is what Sherlock and I are doing right now.

What Mrs Hudson found in the box proved to be two human, severed ears, and the white grit around them was preserving salt. Mrs Hudson dropped them on the ground, along with the box, which spilled salt out onto the pavement. Then she had to sit down on the kerb and try and work off the panic attack which had gripped her. Sherlock squatted down, picked up the ears and immediately focussed all his attention on examining them.

Meanwhile Mycroft had heard the noise and now stood in the doorway."What happened?" he asked.

"Look! It's an ear!" Sherlock said, his face bright with excitement, and thrust it in front of Mycroft's nose. Mycroft peered at it closely, before recoiling. "Yes, well…" he said, with a rather revolted expression on his face. "This is your forte, I think." He edged back towards the door, "I'll call a cab." And with that he disappeared inside.

"Fascinating," breathed Sherlock, turning one of the ears this way and that, allowing the light from Mycroft's window and the streetlamp nearby to fall on it. In the distance I heard a siren. "Come and look John," he said, "Quickly, before they arrive and take them off us." I stood up and joined him.

"That's a male one – look, it has hairs on it and the gene for ear hair is carried on the Y chromosome," he said, tracing the pinna very gently with his finger. "And this one here is female – the skin is smoother, and there's a hole made by a blunt ear gun. The kind they use at Claire's."

"And you know that how?" I asked.

He hesitated for a second and glanced sideways at me, before turning back to the ear. "See where it's been cut?" he said, pointing to a neat line.

"Very precise," I said.

"What do you think, doctor?"

I took the hint. "Medical instrument." I heard a car pull up and footsteps approaching.

Sherlock nodded, talking faster now. "This one on the other hand, has been hacked off by what looks like a kitchen knife. See the jagged edges?" I nodded. Then he lifted the ear to his nose and smelled it. "Not injected with preservatives," he observed.

"Quite fresh too," I said, pointing at the dried blood on the preserving salt, and bending the cartilage, which was still soft.

"I'll take that, thank you," cut in a familiar, dead sounding voice, and a bony hand plucked the relics from Sherlock's hands before he had a chance to protest.

"Oh. Anderson. I might have known."

"Charmed I'm sure," he said coldly. "Playing with evidence? I could have you arrested for that, you know."

"I've probably deduced more than you will," he answered.

"We'll see about that," Anderson replied. He nodded over towards a police car, and I saw Sally Donovan getting out.

"Out the way," she said, elbowing us aside in order to set up crime scene tape around the scattered salt. She turned on Sherlock. "Ah, Freak!"

"Sally."

"What have we found this time? Another prank from the medical students?"

"No. A serious crime."

"Oh? A murder? In the _dark_?"

"Well that's what I was just investigating before we were so rudely interrupted. Anderson should really learn not to snatch, and as for you, 'excuse me' wouldn't go amiss."

"Come on, you two. Sherlock…John…" Mrs Hudson had recovered herself now that the ears were out of sight. "Let's get home, our taxi's here."

"Just a minute," said Sherlock, and crossed to the police car. Lestrade was in the driver's seat.

"Fire away," Lestrade said, taking out a digital recording device. "Three…two…one…go."

Sherlock drew breath. Then, in a fast monotone: "We didn't see or hear anything, we were with Mycroft having Christmas dinner, and he's inside if you need a statement to that effect. Mrs Hudson saw the box addressed to her on the pavement, thought it was a gift and opened it. She's in shock and if you want to question her you'll have to come back to Baker Street, because that's where we're going in that taxi over there. We'll keep the box. Goodnight." He turned back to the car. "Let's go."

"Mrs Hudson, I am all ears," said Sherlock, which made her laugh. It was half an hour later and he, Mrs Hudson and I were in her living room. She was drinking tea which I had made for her, and Sherlock was sitting in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other. I was leaning against the mantelpiece.

"Now you _know _I wouldn't be involved in anything shady," she said, "I get quite enough of all that from you and your crime scenes!"

"What about your family?"

"I hardly see them!" She frowned in thought. "There's my brother. I see him from time to time, but he's in Australia at the moment. And my father _couldn't _have done it, he's in his eighties and he's under constant supervision."

"Hmm…" Sherlock's eyes looked past her, fixed on something and widened. He got up, crossed the room and plucked a photograph off the top of a bookshelf. It was a school photograph, of a small girl who was obviously Mrs Hudson, and a boy a few years younger who looked exactly like a male version of her. "That's your brother, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, and Mrs Hudson nodded.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Mark John Jordan," she answered.

"Where does he live?"

"Pall Mall. Not far from your brother actually," She directed this last to Sherlock.

"The box said 'M. Hudson', Sherlock mused. "Whoever left it must have intended it for your brother, not you."

"Don't be silly dear, why would anyone want to send my brother two severed ears?"

"Why indeed?" Sherlock sank into pensiveness again.

"Maybe it was just a joke after all?" I asked, and earned a scornful look from Sherlock.

He sat for twenty minutes deep in thought. During that time Mrs Hudson went to the phone to try and contact her brother. She returned after ten minutes looking anxious. "He's not picking up…" she said. "I'll try again in an hour. I'm sure everything will be alright…" but her voice was a little tremulous.

I stood up. "Presumably you can carry that on upstairs?" I said to Sherlock.

"Hmm…" he said, and then roused himself. "Thank you for your time, Mrs Hudson," he added, "…And don't worry, I'll find the answers."

"I know you will, dear," she said, smiling.

"Will you be alright?" I asked her.

"I'm a toughie," she replied quietly.

"Does your brother have an email address?" I asked, taking out a pen and pencil from my pocket. "I could try and contact him if you like."

"Thanks, John dear," said Mrs Hudson, and gave me his address.

We entered the hall and Sherlock closed the door behind him. He paused, and then caught my eye. "Altogether very eerie," he said, before starting up the stairs at a run.


	87. The Packaging of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

The day didn't start out well. I came downstairs early to see if there had been any developments overnight (Sherlock had stayed up the previous night to think things through. I left him lying on the sofa like a corpse, with nicotine patches plastered up his arms. It's really no use trying to lecture him about his health. The times when he abuses his body are generally the times when he is in no mood to listen to reason anyway.

When I entered the living room I found Sherlock pacing around in his dressing gown with post-it-notes stuck all over him, in a heated conversation with someone on the other end of the flat's cordless telephone.

"Look, I know you're just an ignorant minion they've stuck on the end of a phone so they don't have to deal with things, but somebody somewhere must have access to the computer records. This is the emergency line isn't it? Well it's an emergency. No I'm not, but it's neither here nor there! Look, there must be a person I can contact, and you must have their number somewhere, so I'm asking you politely, please just put me through to…Hello? Hello…?"

He re-dialed and his free hand flexed in irritation, presumably as he waited for someone to pick up. "Voicemail," he said at last, and he sighed and tossed the receiver onto the sofa. Then he picked up the shoe box and gave the wrecked coffee table another kick. "Sit down, John, I need to run this past you."

I sat down and Sherlock sat opposite me, cross-legged in one of the armchairs. "See this brown mark?" He pointed at an angular streak on the side of the shoebox.

"Yes."

He handed the box to me. "What do you think it is?"

"It's parcel tape," I said, as I ran a finger over it and felt its edge and its plastic feel against the cardboard.

"Exactly. Fresh, because it's clean, smooth and you can still peel it off." He snatched the box back and demonstrated. "If it had been there a long time it would be dirty, worn and frayed, and there'd be no clear edge to get a fingernail underneath. So it was applied recently, and then ripped off in a hurry. What does that indicate?"

"That someone ripped it off in a hurry…?" I suggested lamely, and waited for the berating.

"Yes, very good John," Sherlock said, and I blinked. "Now, there was nothing holding the lid in place when Mrs Hudson found it, so in all likelihood it wasn't dropped. Which implies somebody carried it there on foot, placed it down for some reason and left it there. But if it was packaged up it must have been unwrapped at some stage. If it was delivered to a sorting office within walking distance and was found unwrapped, then there just might be a bin somewhere en route where the wrapping was disposed of. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I said.

"So last night once you'd gone to bed I went out again, and I mapped the route from Mycroft's place to the nearest sorting office using my phone, and I searched all the bins and skips along the way, and I found this…." He held up a torn brown envelope with a stamp, address and post mark on it. Inside there was a red rubber band. "Take a look at it and see what you can infer."

I peered at the packaging. "Same tape, same tearing so definitely the right package" I said.

"I'd agree with that," Sherlock said, in an encouraging tone of voice.

"Rubber band put neatly into the envelope, so it was unwrapped purposefully and almost definitely en route."

"A logical deduction," Sherlock agreed, and I smiled, and racked my brains.

"Think that's it," I said, and I gave it back to him.

"You have a burgeoning talent, John…" he remarked, as he turned the packaging over in his hands.

"Thanks," I said, feeling proud.

"…For deducing everything but the important things," he finished, and I sighed. I might have known.

"Fill me in," I said.

"Well, everything you said was right, but it tells us nothing that gives us a lead. You see this other stamp?" He pointed to the second one that wasn't the airmail one. "It's a limited edition Christmas stamp that's used in Northern Ireland, so the person who sent it had been there very recently."

"That would explain the airmail stamp too," I chipped in, eager to make up for so many stupid deductions.

"Nope," Sherlock answered, and pointed at the post mark. "Look at this. It's an Australian post-mark."

"But that doesn't make any sense…" I said, "Why travel halfway across the world to send a package? Seems a bit of a waste of effort and money."

"Unless you were tracking someone and took the stamps with you because you'd planned the whole thing…" said Sherlock. "Mrs Hudson said her brother was in Australia, didn't she?"

"Yes…"

"So you see the danger he might be in."

"Oh God he's not…?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Sherlock gazed into the middle distance, fingertips together over his lips.

"And the post-it notes?" I waved a hand at the notes stuck all over him.

"Oh, bits and pieces of information. And different phone numbers of people passing the buck. They won't talk to me in an unofficial capacity, so we'll have to get Lestrade involved…Unless…"

His eyes suddenly gleamed. Then he sprang up and made for the door.

"I need you to stay here. I'll be back shortly. Listen for the phone, I'm expecting some calls. Just take down any information they give you on post-it-notes and stick them on my bedroom door. Alright?"

"Alright," I said.

At first I took my duties very seriously. I didn't get involved in any activities that were too distracting, and I kept the post-it-notes and phone receiver close at hand. I watched television for a bit with the sound turned down, and then I ransacked the kitchen cupboards and made a potato dish of sorts, which I put in the fridge for later. And then I read for a bit, but as the morning wore on I began to get bored, and to pay less attention. I read on the sofa, which is where I dosed off. The sound I woke up to, to my horror, was the phone ringing. I grabbed it. "Hello?"

"John, can you come down to the police station?"

"Yeah, what have you found?"

"Well, it's sort of a long story involving an angry neighbour and a set of universal keys. I can't explain now, I'm on a cell phone."

"So…? You've got credit on it, I topped it up that time I borrowed…"

"No no, not a mobile. I mean a _cell _phone. A phone in a cell."

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then: "Sherlock? What the hell have you been up to?"

"I'll explain when you get here, ok?"

"Alright. See you in half an hour."

I hailed a cab and when I arrived at the police station I was led to the holding cell. Sherlock was pacing around, quietly singing: "Bored, bored, bored, bored, oh so terribly bored…"

"Sherlock?" I called through the mesh.

"John!" he called back, sounding relieved. He came over and looked out at me. "Lestrade should be here any minute. He'll sort this whole thing out."

"How did you end up here?" I asked him.

"Well," he cleared his throat and drew breath: "

"I realised that if we were going to keep Lestrade out of all this, I'd have to get my information by visiting Mark Hudson's place in Pall Mall. So I asked Mrs Hudson for the address, and then I took a cab there. When I got there of course, it was all locked up, but I had anticipated that and brought my set of universal keys.

"Unfortunately, the neighbour saw me poking around, and he didn't like it. He came up to me demanding to know who I was and what I was doing. I showed him one of the ID cards of inspector Lestrade, and he said, if a crime had been committed, why was there no crime tape? Why were there no police cars? Why was there no backup? And why didn't I force entry in the normal way if I didn't have anything to hide? I said backup was arriving, and that I just wanted to make sure everything was alright. He said he was going to call the local police station to check, and that Mark Hudson had been worried that someone was after him and his partner, and had asked him, the neighbour, to watch the house very carefully for anyone snooping around. I told him that it was fine, the search could wait and I would leave the house alone and not to worry, whereupon he disappeared back inside. As soon as he had gone of course, I carried on where I'd left off."

"What about the burglar alarm?" I asked.

"Oh, I used Mycroft's method," Sherlock said, referring to a time when Mycroft had broken into his own home as a boy and correctly deduced the sequence needed to deactivate the burglar alarm. "Anyway, once I was in I started investigating. I'd been there for about ten minutes when the door crashed open, and two policemen came in. I made a hasty retreat through a window but it was guarded, so I had no exit. The police took me back to the station and here I am."

I really tried my best not to look too pleased as Sherlock finished his story. But in the end the effort was too much and I started to laugh.

"What?" Sherlock looked indignant.

"You! You made a mistake! Sherlock Holmes made a mistake!"

"It does happen from time to time," he muttered, looking down for a moment.

There was an awkward pause.

"Ah, Lestrade," said Sherlock at last.

"What is it this time?" Lestrade asked, in a resigned but not unpleasant voice. "Stealing? Concealing evidence?"

"Technically I've never concealed evidence – "

" – Sherlock, a word of advice," Lestrade leaned close. "This isn't a time for wise-cracks."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "I needed to search the house," he explained.

"So you broke in? You could have just sent me a text! I'd have sent a team round."

"Well…" Sherlock seemed to fumble for a fraction of a second. "I didn't want to put you to trouble during Christmas," he settled upon at last.

"Now you realise I'm breaking the rules letting you go free? I'm supposed to give you an official caution at the very least…but seeing as it's you and you've done me favours in the past…" He took out a set of keys. "This is going to be a logistical nightmare, thanks to your antics," he added, as he unlocked the cell door.

Sherlock and I got lunch while we waited. I had a bacon, lettuce and tomato Panini. Sherlock had a lollipop. For a while we ate in silence. Then: "Would you like to hear where I got my violin?"

"Um…yeah, why not?" I replied, baffled at the seemingly random choice of conversation topic.

"Well, it was in 2008, I'd solved a robbery case – a violin theft. The client actually made his own violins."

"Really?"

"Yes. I mean, made them all from scratch. The varnish, the glue for the wood, _everything._ He said he liked to know he had total control over the final product."

"He sounds like you."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "How do you mean?"

"Very precise, obsessed with detail."

"Arguably," he replied. "Anyway you know how violins sound better the older they are? And wine tastes better the older it is? He had an idea that if he kept his violins hung up in a dark wine cellar they'd mature quickly too. Bit of a stupid idea in my opinion." He bit the rest of his lollipop off and pocketed the stick.

"It's not lunch," I murmured.

"I've already explained, digesting takes all the energy away from my brain and puts it in my stomach!"

"So…you bought one of his violins then?"

"No. I went onto ebay and there was a Strad on there for five pounds, no reserve. They had a postage price too, but I took the train down to collect it in person. I didn't want it to get damaged, and they clearly had no idea how valuable it was."

"But if you bought it for a fiver, wasn't that a bit unfair on your part, if it was worth so much more?"

"Believe me, if I hadn't bought it, he'd have paid for it to be taken away."

"Why?"

"Oh, it all had something to do with a love interest. It always does. Anyway, she's safe with me."

Before I could ask who he meant by 'she', a text came through on Sherlock's phone. "It's from Lestrade," he said. "He's ready when we are." And without looking round to check if I was following, he turned on his heel and made his way back towards the police station.

-/-/-

Our actual investigation didn't last very long. Lestrade showed his ID, and since there was a police car and backup in the form of Lestrade's colleague and good friend, Emily Hicks, the neighbour did nothing but watch us sullenly from his garden.

"We need photos," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. Emily and Lestrade stared blankly at him. He sighed at their lack of imagination, and I began to cast around for likely places to keep photos. My search took me up to the bedroom, which had a double bed in it with a flowery quilt. "A single man can sleep in a double bed," I said under my breath, "But a double bed with flowers – he's got to be with somebody. So in that case…where are all the romantic photos?" I swept a glance around the room, and eventually saw a frame lying face down on the top of the wardrobe. I pulled it down, and there was a much older version of Mark Hudson in profile (but with his head turned towards the camera), with his arms wrapped around the waist of a laughing slip of a girl. She was skinny and of medium height, with long, very red hair. Her nose was button-like and her lips were full and pink. One thin hand gripped Mark's arm and she was laughing into the camera, but there was something odd about her eyes. The quality of the picture was not good enough for me to put my finger on what it was, but I felt my doctor's instinct stir inexplicably deep within.

"I've found one!" I called as I entered the living room.

"Snap," said Sherlock, holding a picture out, presumably from the album which was lying open on top of the television. But then he did a comical double-take, because they weren't the same girl! The second picture was of an older woman in a red and white striped jumper, with a coarser face and curly blonde hair. "Oh," Sherlock said and frowned.

"People sometimes write details on the backs of photos. It might give us a clue…?" I suggested.

"Good idea, John," he replied. I popped my photo out of the frame. Sure enough, on the back there was a caption: "Tessa and Mark, 2010".

"Mine says "Zoe and Mark, 2011", Sherlock said.

"An ex?"

"Probably," he confirmed, and he took photos of the pictures on his phone. "But Mrs Hudson'll be able to tell us more." He turned to Lestrade and Emily. I realised they had been watching us silently the whole time. Emily had a look of awe on her face, but unlike so many people do, she hadn't fixed her gaze solely on Sherlock; she was looking at both of us, as a team, and that made me swell with pride.

"I think we've got enough to be getting on with now," Sherlock said, and he made for the door.

"Thanks," I said to Lestrade and Emily as they followed us out.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock summoned Mrs Hudson upstairs and showed her the photograph of Zoe on his phone. "That's his current girlfriend," she said.

"How long has he been with her?" Sherlock enquired.

"Oooh…since about last January I think," Mrs Hudson replied. "She's his dream girl, he says to me, but she'd got divorced so she's not ready for marriage again yet.

"Is she Australian?" I asked.

"No, no, from London. They moved there for his work mostly."

"And who's the girl in the other picture?" Sherlock asked as he showed Mrs Hudson the picture of Tessa.

Instantly Mrs Hudson's face clouded. "Now, she was a bit mysterious," she admitted. "I never did find out much about her. He split up with her a few months before he got together with Zoe."

"Any ideas why?" I asked.

She shook her head. "He wouldn't tell me. I mean, she was always very polite when she came round. Had a lovely soft Irish accent too, but…I don't know…call it a woman's intuition. I…I just got the feeling there was something more to her than met the eye. But there!" she gave a light laugh, "You could say that about Sherlock and he's harmless enough!"

"Quite," said Sherlock in a rather sinister voice. He was looking at the photos again, and then suddenly he stood up and went over to his notice board on which he had pinned the photos of the severed ears. He held his phone up beside them, and seemed to freeze.

"What?" I asked, crossing the room to see. But as soon as I arrived he was going back over towards Mrs Hudson.

"Mrs Hudson, have you spoken to Mark since Christmas?"

"No, why?"

"Well – he must want to hear from you, hear what sort of Christmas you had."

"Oh no, he's always so busy…and what would I tell him anyway? That I received two ears in a box?"

"I don't know, tell him the usual things people tell their families at Christmas. He'll appreciate it." Sherlock was ushering Mrs Hudson towards the door.

"Well, alright then! It can't do any harm after all. And you just come knocking if you need any more information, won't you?"

"We will. Thanks for all your help," said Sherlock, and he shut the door behind her.

"What did you find?" I asked him, as soon as I was sure Mrs Hudson was out of hearing distance.

"Come and look." He grabbed me by the wrist and hurried me over to the notice board. "Look at the female ear," he told me. "And now look at this," and he held up his phone, which had the photo of Zoe on the screen. "Look at her ear," he told me, and his voice was high and his breathing shallow. "Look at the cartilage pattern. Look at the shape. The size. The lobe. The earring." I looked back and forth between the two pictures, and felt an icy chill.

"Oh Jesus," I muttered.


	88. The Owner of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

"It's the same ear, it's got to be," I said, and Sherlock nodded. "What are we going to do?"

"Your job," Sherlock said, "Is to keep Mrs Hudson calm. We need the information she has, and she's only going to be useful to us if she's calm. Alright?"

"Alright."

"Now the postmark indicated the parcel was sent from East Perth, Australia. To be as fresh as they are the sender must have dropped it directly at the sorting office, and we know from the stamps that it went by express delivery. I've sent Lestrade the photos of Tessa and Zoe. The task now is to look for evidence of the crime that took place."

"A murder?"

"Possibly, but not necessarily. So, Lestrade's already made contact with the Australian police in Perth, where the parcel was sent from. They've set up a video conference with us for nine O'clock this evening in our time, and in the meantime we need to find out more about Tessa, where she was from in Ireland and then see if she's known to the police over there…."

As he was speaking, I heard a knock on our door and a "Coo-coo" from Mrs Hudson. I let her in. "He's not answering his house phone or his mobile. Oh well, never mind. I'll try again tomorrow!"

"It's not important," Sherlock replied. "What is important is that we need information from you about Mark's ex-girlfriend, Tessa."

"Of course, dear, anything that will help…"

Sherlock nodded at me to continue, and pulled his laptop onto his knee.

"What was Tessa's last name?" I asked Mrs Hudson.

"Reid. Tessa Reid." Sherlock took this down.

"Where was she from in Ireland?"

"I think she was from Belfast, Mark said."

"That would fit with the stamp," Sherlock commented, and he looked up. "Why did she go to Australia?"

Mrs Hudson looked baffled. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock and I shared a glance. I raised my eyebrows and Sherlock shook his head. "It's just that the package had a stamp from Northern Ireland but the postmark was Australian," I said.

"Exactly, so somebody from Northern Ireland went to Australia very recently. Someone who knew your brother."

"Well it must have been a coincidence then," Mrs Hudson said, frowning in thought. "She had no connections with the country that I know of. She was Irish through and through. And Mark only moved there with Zoe after they'd split up."

"Interesting," said Sherlock, with a glitter of interest in his eye.

Mrs Hudson picked up on this instantly. "What are you thinking, Sherlock?"

He shook his head. "It would be guesswork if I – "

" – Sherlock, please."

"Mrs Hudson," he said, holding her gaze. "What you just said got me thinking – that's all. I've got several ideas just now, but there's absolutely no data to back any of them up, so I'm not going to share them because they'd only scare you, and when people panic it's very hard to get anything useful out of them. Do you understand?"

I could see that it took a lot of restraint for Mrs Hudson not to argue, but after a pause she nodded. "Am I allowed to tell you what I think _you're _thinking?" she asked him.

Sherlock looked intrigued. "Go on then," he said, with the tiniest of smiles.

"I think you think Tessa followed them and…" she broke off, and her eyes became very bright.

"Don't worry," he reassured her, "It's not necessarily a murder case. And people can survive very well with just one ear..." In the silence that followed he turned back to his computer, typed intensively for about a minute, and then clicked 'enter' with a flourish. "Done!" he said.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Now we'll see what Lestrade can find for us."

-/-/-

I woke up the next morning with Sherlock standing over my bed, fully dressed and ready to go out. "Come on, Sleepy," he said, "Lestrade's got information. He wants us round at the police station for nine."

When we arrived we were greeted by Emily Hicks. Mrs Hudson had insisted on coming along with us, having failed once again to make contact with either Mark or Zoe. "Martha Hudson?" Emily greeted her, shaking her hand. "Good to meet you, and I'm sorry for the worry you must be going through just now."

"Being part of it all helps." She smiled.

"Well that's understandable," Emily said, and turned her attention to Sherlock and me. "He's in one of the private rooms. He's got a video conference set up with someone from the police service of Northern Ireland."

"What have you found?" Sherlock asked, as he entered the room. Lestrade looked up and then gestured to two chairs. I tried to give mine to Mrs Hudson, but she refused to take it. So we both stood resolutely by the chair until Sherlock brought us to our senses: "John, don't be an idiot. Sit down, we're on camera." And we were. On the monitor of the computer on the desk in front of us there was the head and shoulders of a large, pink, beefy policeman in a blue shirt. He had a lot of brown hair on the top of his head, a receding hairline, and a round face. "Er…this is DI Alan Sharp. Alan…Sherlock, John and, erm…"

"…Mrs Hudson," Sherlock supplied.

"Good to see you, in a manner of speaking," Sharp said, and grinned. "Lestrade?"

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "I did what you said in the email and contacted them about the name Tessa Reid."

"Now," Sharp said, "It's not strictly protocol to allow information out to the general public, so if you could, you know…keep it to yourselves."

"Oh of course," Mrs Hudson assured him, and Sherlock gave a nod.

"Good – thanks everyone. Now…" Sharp appeared to turn over pages in a file, but it was hard to know because it was below the view of the webcam. "From the first name and photograph, I think we do havea match. Tessa Reid, you said." He looked up. "When we had tabs on her she used her married name of Riley."

"She was _married?_" Mrs Hudson gasped. "Neither of us knew that! Mark said she had never been in love before!"

"Well it wouldn't be her first deception," Sharp said. "This may come as a shock, but she was a reformed drug addict and dealer. She turned herself in, spent time in jail but was released on probation for good behaviour."

Mrs Hudson turned pale, and realisation registered on her features. "_That's _why Mark wouldn't say why they split up! He never did know how to act around people with difficult pasts. But he still wanted to protect her reputation! Such strong principles."

"Do you have a record of what she did after being released?" Sherlock asked.

"That's the thing," Sharp replied, consulting his notes. "We have records up to the 10th of December. She'd been living in her own flat since she separated from her husband. He reported her missing, and we did a search of the bus and train stations, the docks and the airports, but we didn't find anything."

"And presumably you took into account the fact that she'd changed her name from Riley back to Reid?"

Here Sharp dropped his gaze and gave a little sheepish smile.

"I might have known," Sherlock said, and rearranged his scarf. He has an uncanny way of making people feel very small just with a look, or by rearranging his scarf.

"I've forwarded the information about her name on now."

"It's just…we know she ended up in Australia," I cut in.

"Really?" Sharps' electronic-pixel-eyes widened.

"Yep, she sent a parcel. We just needed to know a bit about her background."

"…And whether she had the nerve to attempt a murder…" Sherlock added. He had forgotten about Mrs Hudson being present.

"Wh…what does he mean?" Mrs Hudson asked me. I didn't answer. She swallowed and tried to find somewhere to look.

Sherlock turned to her. "Does Mark have hairy ears?"

"Hairy ears?" Mrs Hudson half-smiled, "Well I haven't examined them very closely, but no. At least, I don't think he does…"

"Then he's probably fine," Sherlock said. Before she could object he addressed Sharp. "Right. Thank you for your time."

"No trouble at all," Sharp replied.

Once Lestrade had turned off the webcam, Sherlock confronted him. "Why wouldn't she acknowledge her marriage?"

He considered for a moment. "Maybe he cheated on her?"

"No, he didn't cheat. Think about it logically. She doesn't acknowledge her marriage, and she turned herself in to the jail. Then some months after she'd been released, she was clever enough to go off-grid, escape the eyes of the entire Northern Ireland police service and get out of the country. So she isn't just one of those people who likes jail. She wanted freedom, but she turned herself in because she was desperate and needed protection. Who from? Most likely the husband she refuses to acknowledge."

"Fair enough…but how does this involve Mark and Zoe?"

"Mrs Hudson?" She was in her own world but jerked back to the present when Sherlock said her name. "Was Mark planning to move when he was with Tessa?"

"Well Mark's a conservationist. He was doing field work in Northern Ireland, but he lived in Britain. He was talking about a change, yes."

"There you go," Sherlock said. "Mark was her ticket out, away from the threat of her husband. Which provides her with a motive for…" Suddenly he stopped, and his gaze fell on Mrs Hudson. "Well anyway, can probably…" he trailed off with a gesture and a significant look at both of us.

"So what do we do now?" Lestrade's voice was falsely bright, by way of preventing a disconcerting silence.

"Now Mrs Hudson needs to keep on trying to reach Mark. And in case that fails, John and I are going to search for evidence of any unusual crimes taking place in Perth, Australia. And Lestrade? Get another video conference with the police there."

"Well it'll have to be this evening, given the time difference…"

"Oh that's ok, we're not doing anything."

"Well…I was thinking about me more," he muttered, and I noticed him give the tiniest glance in the direction of the main office. But before I could ponder this, Sherlock was calling us out the room and back to the street for a cab back to Baker Street.


	89. Sherlock: Request for Information

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

We are looking for any information on the whereabouts of a woman called Tessa Reid. She is about five foot six inches tall, of a slim build and has long red hair, a small nose, full lips and brown eyes. Her natural accent is Irish. It is possible she was in Pall Mall on the evening of Christmas Day. If you have any information that can help us trace this woman, please contact me or John.


	90. The Origins of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

The 28th was the sort of day that begins badly, remains bad for most of the day, and then suddenly improves dramatically. To begin with, the Australian police didn't get back to Sherlock at the time he expected. He had been hoping, I think, for another video conference with somebody the previous evening, and Lestrade had assured us that they had assured _him _that they would make contact before the day was up. Maybe it was the time difference, or maybe it was simply a backlog of work at Christmas, but it threw Sherlock off. The positive side of it was that Lestrade's evening plans weren't disrupted.

I've started to notice there are three different types of case. The first kind is the kind which careers along so wildly that all Sherlock can do is absorb as much of the information that happens to be thrown at him as possible, and hope he can make the necessary deductions within the time limit. Like a very high-stakes version of whackamole, if you like. Moriarty's little game was an example of that; puzzle after puzzle after puzzle. These are Sherlock's second-least favourite cases (although relatively speaking he will relish any challenging case). He doesn't like feeling out of control.

The second kind – the kind he lives for – are the kind where he lies on the sofa at home and is ruler of the universe, yet oblivious to the outside world, until an interesting case is brought to him by someone of mediocre intelligence. Then if it suits him, he goes into turbo charge and works day and night for about a week or so. In that situation he can show off, up his reputation (not that he cares about fame, but it brings him more diverse cases if he has circles in which he's well known), and get an adrenaline kick all at the same time. And then afterwards he completely crashes. About three or four times a year he'll go to his room and stay in bed for about six days straight (apart from doing the things necessary to survive, of course). Then he'll come out straining at the leash again.

The third kind – the kind that frustrates him no end – is exactly the opposite, and in some ways this case is one of those; where virtually nothing is in his control, in this case because large portions of it took place on the other side of the world. He can't examine the crime scene, he can't talk directly to the people involved and there's no quick way of getting information. This makes him chafe at the bit, and most of today was spent chafing. If it hadn't been Mrs Hudson he may well have not even got up, but told the police that if they wanted his help they should come and consult him on his sofa.

We both knew there wasn't much we could do until the Perth police got back. Mrs Hudson was growing increasingly anxious, and had come up several times to check on the progress. At first Sherlock was patient enough.

"No, sorry, no news yet. Hopefully soon…"

"Nuh-uh…"

"Look, we'll let you know."

And finally: "Mrs Hudson, haven't you got anything better to do than pester us? I SAID we'd let you know. Off you go…do some housework or something." She slunk out. Sherlock caught me looking at him with my "Charming…just charming, Sherlock…" look on my face.

"I was polite!" he protested. "She was being stupid! Coming up here and moping when I said we'd let her know! Doesn't she _trust _me?"

He threw himself down onto the sofa. "Don't talk to me just now," he snapped, and stared at the ceiling for an hour.

Mrs Hudson took his advice, and throughout the day, if I listened carefully, I heard various noises, such as a clang of pots and pans, a tap being run forcefully, and – several times – the vacuum. Perhaps Sherlock's advice hadn't been entirely thoughtless after all. At least she was keeping herself busy and, to some degree, distracted.

It wasn't until the early evening that the buzzer went. Sherlock jumped in surprise, and then rocketed up off the sofa. His shin crashed against a broken corner of the coffee table, and he hobbled the rest of the way to the door, where he ushered in Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Lestrade and I sat in the two armchairs. Mrs Hudson perched herself on the sofa. Sherlock stood on one leg, occasionally hopping to keep his balance, while he rubbed the rapidly growing bruise on his shin.

"Did you…get a conference?" he asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"Then what did you...wooah…" (he wobbled dangerously but regained his balance) "…Find out?" he inquired of Lestrade, and then sat down

"They emailed us with all the relevant paperwork attached in return for the forensic evidence gathered from the ears." He went to place a wad of papers on the coffee table, remembered it was broken, cast around for a place to put them and settled for the arm of the sofa. "In summary, they think they've found the case in question. The inquiry's on-going, but it had them baffled. Now the ears have turned up it simplifies things. They thought it was a strange form of murder-stroke-mutilation."

Mrs Hudson had reached her limits and turned sick and white. "No…" she whispered, covering her face with her hands. "Not Mark…I couldn't bear it!"

"Not Mark, no," Lestrade reassured her, and she let her hands drop and closed her eyes briefly in relief.

"Zoe…?"

"Zoe is in the hospital. She was brought in on the night of the 21st with critical blood loss."

"The female ear…it was hers," I told her. There really was no point in skirting around the fact any more.

"Will she live…?" Mrs Hudson's eyes were wide, but she was remaining impressively composed. Sherlock was watching her with an expressionless face, but rare sympathy showed in his eyes.

"Oh yes, she's in there now mainly for trauma," Lestrade said. "And I'm afraid the police have to treat her as a suspect."

"Nonsense!" For the first time, I saw an angry Mrs Hudson. "Now that's a silly speculation! Zoe's one of the gentlest people you could meet!"

"That may be, but the police have to follow the procedures. It was just her and the man in that room. The man was dead. He didn't cut off his own ear."

"What about Mark?" I asked.

"It was him who found them both and called the ambulance. He's already been checked. There's no forensic evidence linking him to the crime."

"And did he say what happened?" Sherlock asked, now eager.

"Well he didn't actually see it," Lestrade explained. "He says he came into the flat and found her lying face down with blood all over the carpet and no ear. And the other man – a stranger to him – was dead with a knife in his chest and also missing an ear. They never found the ears. That's what made the case so odd. That and the fact the knife had no fingerprints on it…"

Sherlock sat up and put his fingertips together. "That deserves some thought…" he said. Throughout the course of the conversation he had been transformed from the moody, languid Sherlock of the day into the energised, sharp detective. It was almost as if the new data was like fuel to him.

There was then a brief silence, which Mrs Hudson broke. "I've been trying to reach Mark on the phone," she said in a small voice. "Is there any way I can get through to him, Detective? I've been worried sick…"

"It must've been tough," Lestrade said quietly. "They're at the Royal Perth Hospital. The police have told Mark not to tell anyone anything because they don't know what happened, and they don't want the press getting the wrong idea…but you're family." He smiled at her with kind eyes. It was a strange experience – the expression somehow didn't fit his face. He scribbled down a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. "I'll text him, let him know you're going to get in touch and that you are who you say you are. Then you'll be able to contact your brother."

"You've been so kind!" she exclaimed, as she folded the note neatly and stuck it into the breast pocket of her blouse.

"You're her _ear-oh_, Lestrade…" Sherlock commented, suppressing a smile with difficulty.

"Watch it, _Holmes_," he answered.

"Is there any more information on Tessa Reid?" I asked, and Sherlock murmured "Good, John," under his breath.

"Oh…yes there is. Perth International Airport says they have records that a Tessa Riley boarded a plane to Britain the following morning – the 22nd.

"It all fits…it all fits!" Sherlock was beside himself now, and his eyes became less focussed as he began to piece together the details. When he spoke his voice was low and quick and almost whispered. "To get the package over she needed to avoid the luggage scanners. So she managed to get it directly into the final sorting stage and then – and then! – she _raced _the package over there on the plane! And on the 24th she was able to collect it from the sorting office at Pall Mall because she'd bypassed so much time at the sending end – "

" – But that doesn't make _sense_!" I objected.

"Why not?"

"Because we _know _the package wrapping was found in the bin en route from the sorting office on the 25th of December!"

"Yes," Sherlock mused, as he tapped his fingers together, and threw a glance at his violin. "That bit doesn't fit. Either that packaging was in the bin from the 24th, and she was staying nearby and unwrapped it when she collected it, which can be easily verified by a phone call to any nearby B&B's, hostels or hotels…or…NO…she was going to plant it in Mark Hudson's house here, both to crow about what she'd done, but also as a distraction. Because while he was being questioned, or at least when it was found, the resulting inquiry would buy her time to slip out of the country unnoticed. She _does _seem to have an uncanny talent for that…" And he smiled.

"But if she didn't drop it, and she intended to plant it," I persisted, "Why did she leave it on the pavement?

"Hmmm…I wonder…" Sherlock pondered. "But that's a question we can't answer here without guessing, and we can't afford to guess at this stage." He paused in thought, and then grinned widely. "Not to worry, I know exactly who to ask."

"Who?"

"Our friendly neighbourhood Spy-man!" And with that he sprang up, cracking his shin against the coffee table corner for a second time.


	91. The Abandonment of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

First of all, thank you to the reader who came forward with information about Tessa. Even posting anonymously that was a good and courageous thing to do. In fact, that information turned out to be crucial, as you'll see.

-/-/-

Sherlock insisted it was vital we talked to the neighbour straight away. "It's an old trail we're following, but it's important we work it all out," he explained. "If we're going to fit the pieces of this puzzle together we need to work in a stepwise fashion from the first one to the next and the next, because then we'll be able to recognise the final one when we come to it."

We took a cab and followed the police car.

"Sherlock, dear,why take a cab when Lestrade offered you a lift? It would be cheaper, you know."

"It's a long story – well, actually several stories – involving new evidence, new officers and no common sense," he replied as he peered intently out the window at the landmarks en route. "The upshot is that any scientist knows how evocative and therefore distracting certain sensory information can be. Like the inside of a police car."

"You mean you were arrested?"

He glanced at me out the corner of his eye. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to go into specifics, but yes."

"What for?"

"When I was getting started I could hardly complete a case without being arrested for something at least once during my investigations," he said. "Of course, now I'm more experienced and I know how to do things. And they know me. It's just the new ones and the idiots who keep jumping to the same conclusions."

"Fair enough," I conceded.

-/-/-

We reached the neighbour's house in Pall Mall, which was tall and narrow, with a letterbox next to the gate. Sherlock dipped into this, drew out an envelope, read the address and put it back, before leading the way up the garden path, past a sad wooden chair and a few pots with wilting plants in. "Either a lost love or a relative that used to stay here," Sherlock remarked, nodding at them. He rang the bell, and we waited a little nervously. At first there was silence, and then the curtains in one window opened a crack. Seconds later there were footsteps and the sound of a lock being turned, before the door was flung open, and our potential witness stood on the doorway in a dressing gown and slippers. A large white rat sat on his shoulder eating a peanut. A saw Mrs Hudson flinch and eye it with disgust. The man pointed at Sherlock. "It's you again! That Lestrade-burglar." Lestrade shot Sherlock an indignant look. "What do you want?"

"We just wanted to come in and talk to you…" I began. An angry gleam came into his eye. "…Or…or stay out here and talk to you for that matter. Nice rat," I added quickly. "I had one as a boy. Called Pickle."

Without a word, the man reached a hand up, grasped the rat around the waist and handed it to me. Immediately I realised what Sherlock meant about sensory evocation; I felt like I was nine years old and back at home in the attic again, where I had built my rat obstacle course out of cereal boxes and toilet rolls. This rat's fur was soft, yet wiry to the touch. Its feet set my skin crawling, like spiders gripping my hand, but not in an unpleasant way. Its ears reminded me of miniature velvety lettuces, and the tail – strong and soft, like climbing rope. He snuffled my hands and searched for treats in my sleeves before bounding up my arm, causing Mrs Hudson to take a step back. There was a precarious stillness in the party; this could go either way.

"Scatter," the man said, referring to the rat.

"Nice to meet you," I said, and I shook one of its paws with one finger.

"Come on," said the man and lifted Scatter tenderly off my shoulder, to perch in the crook of his arm. I braced myself. "Mr Tindal," I said, "there's been a serious crime committed, and you might be a valuable lead."

There was a long pause, during which Mr Tindal scrutinised us. Sherlock looked almost comically unnerved at this; he was used to being the one who did the scrutinising and now he was realising how it felt to be on the receiving end. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson watched in amusement. Finally, Mr Tindal nodded, and silently waved us through the door.

Inside, Sherlock paced around the kitchen. "We know Tessa – that's the woman we're trying to trace – abandoned a box of ears on the road near your house."

"Ears?"

"Yes, ears. Human ears."

"Good God…" but Mr Tindal's face had brightened with interest.

Sherlock paused as he registered this. "Are you nocturnal?" he asked.

"Yes actually. How did you know?"

"Last time when I was here in the day the blinds were down, but now they're up."

"Well I hate daylight. And I hate people peering in at my things."

"What's your job?" I asked.

"I proof-read. And I translate."

"From home?" He nodded, and showed us through to the living room, which was also his workspace. The living room was behind the kitchen, and as such its window looked out at the street on the opposite side of the house. A tattered, stained brown sofa was plonked randomly in the middle of the room, with an electric stove immediately in front of it. Behind the sofa, against the other wall, was a desk with a computer and printer/scanner, and a desk-chair. There was an old bookcase beside the window, and a filing cabinet. On a table by the window there was a gigantic three-tier cage, into which Mr Tindal placed Scatter.

Mrs Hudson didn't look as if she particularly wanted to sit on the sofa, but Mr Tindal instructed her to do so, and she didn't have the nerve to argue with him. Once she had sat down he ignored her completely, and turned his attention fully to Sherlock.

"First question," he said.

"Where were you on Christmas day?"

"Cliched," Mr Tindal remarked, which made Sherlock smile. "I was here having Christmas dinner with Scatter. Second question?"

"Did you hear or see anything unusual?"

"_Very _cliched!" This time Sherlock looked a little hurt. "Yes. Scatter and I heard male voices shouting on the street, and then a female one joined in."

"Was she screaming?"

"Sexist! No, she was yelling something about teaching someone a lesson, and then there were just random yells."

"Then what?"

"Then I went outside to investigate, _obviously_."

Sherlock couldn't seem to decide between an irritated or interested facial expression this time, and in the end he opted for neither. As for me, I was just finding the whole thing very entertaining, whilst absorbing the information. Mr Tindal began to warm up now. "I went into the street, and there were two lads and a woman fighting. They were attempting to get a grip on her and hold her down, and she was holding them off by kicking them with the sole of her shoe, like a kick boxer. So I picked up one of my plant pots and threw it at them. The soil's been packed in for over a year so it was pretty hard. It hit one on the side of the face and he let go, and I called to the girl to get inside the house. Then I threatened to get a torch so I could see them better to describe them to the police and they ran for it. I saved that girl. If I hadn't got to her she might have been raped or murdered. But I saved her!" His manner was pompous now.

"Yes, it was very brave," said Sherlock in a bored voice, and he stretched. "So she must have put the box down to defend herself."

"I didn't see a box."

"Well we know it was there. You just didn't observe," Sherlock replied coldly. I waited for Mr Tindal to tell him to get out of his house. He just glared.

"Alright," I said, holding up my hands. "It's not a competition. You say she came into your house. What did she look like?"

He pondered. "Smallish. Skinny – I wanted to feed her up but she wouldn't have anything to eat or drink. She wouldn't stay either." He paused. "Hair like a furnace," he added as an afterthought.

Sherlock leaned forward towards him. "And where did she go?" he asked with fierce intensity.

"I gave her some money and took her to the Haymarket Hotel."

"Right," said Sherlock, and shook Mr Tindal's hand. "You're an odd person. Keep up the good work, won't you?" and he disappeared out the door, with us hurrying behind.

-/-/-

"Sherlock, just get in the police car."

"No. I'll take a cab."

"But Sherlock, dear, it's just for a few minutes, and it's silly to put a cab driver to all that trouble for such a little journey."

"Then I'll find a shortcut and go on foot."

"Look, you're holding up the investigation. Get in the car."

Sherlock looked back and forth between Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He seemed to be considering it. But then he shook his head. "You drive. I could do with the exercise."

"Well we're not sitting around waiting for you to turn up while you get lost in some back-alley," Lestrade warned him, as we all got into the police car. The last I saw of him he was walking in the opposite direction, and as he walked I could hear repeated, reedy, high pitched tones as he practiced his new skill.

Two minutes later, we pulled up at the hotel. I swept a glance around. No Sherlock. We waited for one minute, until it started to rain. "Right," Lestrade said. "If he won't cooperate with us, then we won't wait for him." And he led the way in.

The hotel was extremely posh – a boutique hotel. The lobby had a shiny wooden floor and two huge, round mirrors on the walls. The lighting was ambient, and the atmosphere was snug, yet airy at the same time. "Can I help you?" said a voice behind us. We whipped round in surprise, and there was Sherlock in a steward's uniform.

"What the hell…?"

"Oh they know me here," he said casually. "You're late."

"Yes…well…is there a _real _steward somewhere?" Lestrade asked.

"Fully clothed?" I added.

"This way," said Sherlock, and we followed him into the staff quarters, into the spacious office of a man who was so clean he might have been bionic.

"This is Adam Whitier, the new manager," Sherlock told us.

"Acting manager," this man corrected. "Pleased to meet you."

"You too," I said, shaking his hand. Lestrade nodded at him, and we all sat down around his desk.

"As you can imagine we have so many guests it's difficult to remember an individual sometimes – " he began, but Sherlock cut across him:

" – She had really red hair."

"A lot of people have red hair. It's a fashionable colour at the moment."

"No _natural _red hair," Sherlock said with impatience.

"Oh. Well sometimes we get people with naturally red hair, and that would narrow it down. A name would be more helpful though."

"Well, sometimes she's Tessa Reid and sometimes she's Tessa Riley. She was here on the night of the 25th."

"Here for Christmas, eh? Well I can check back over the computer records," he said, and he turned on the computer.

We waited for it to load, and then he brought up the bookings for the 25th. "Yes! She was in room six."

"She's not still there, is she?"

Again he checked his records. "She stayed for four nights."

"_Four?_ "

"Yes. She was using a credit card. She said she had arrangements to make and didn't want to complicate anything by jumping hotels."

"She didn't want to leave a trail," muttered Sherlock. "When did she check out?"

Er…this morning I think…

"This morning?" Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "We can still catch her then, if we put all the transport points on alert again."

"You know, the rest of the force are getting fed up of all these high priority alerts and searches," he said.

"But _you _know they're necessary!" Sherlock spoke as he was giving a pep-talk. Lestrade nodded. "So convince them too! You're a determined person, Lestrade – that's your strength. So will you try?"

"Yeah, I'll try."

"Good."

"And what will we do now?" I asked.

Sherlock turned to me and looked me right in the eye. "What do you think we should do?"

"Are you asking or testing?"

"I'm asking. We haven't got any more leads, and I can't see how we can keep tracing her trail. Not now that our last definite source of information's been exhausted. And by the time we call round all the hotels, hostels and bed and breakfasts in London she could be gone again and we'll always be one step behind. And she might have relatives or friends she can stay with anyway, which widens the possible places she could be. Or she might even be sleeping on the street for all we know now, if she's spent all her money here. So I'm stumped. I don't know what to do…" He seemed genuinely distressed.

"Er…well…" I considered. "We could put out a call for information…"

"No no, that would only alert her to the fact we're searching and she'll double her efforts at staying hidden."

"Well it doesn't have to be fully public. I mean…what about the blogs?"

Sherlock's face cleared, and he smacked his head. "Precisely! Stupid, slow brain, I could have thought of that myself…"

I sighed and followed him out to the lobby, calling "Sorry about this! Thanks for your help!" over my shoulder at a perplexed Adam Whitier.


	92. The Explanation of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

There was nothing else to do following the investigations but wait for either Lestrade or our readers to come up with some new information. Sherlock was particularly restless today and paced around looking mutinous, before pottering in his chemistry cupboard. After ten minutes or so he demeanour changed again, to the one he adopts when he sees himself as a performer. I watched over the top of my book as he took down some jars, which he brought over to the fire. Then he donned some gloves, took a pinch of one of the powders and threw it in. Instantly the flames turned a deep blue.

"That's arsenic," he announced, with relish. "Want some?"

"I think not," I replied, declining the jar.

"Then try some of this," he persisted. He pulled off the gloves and shoved them under my nose. "Put them on…"

"But…"

"Come on, John, they won't kill you."

I tried to refuse, but he insisted, so eventually I did as he instructed, trying not to touch the places where the arsenic had been.

"Now, take a pinch of that one," he said, and he held out a large, brown jar filled with what looked like ground up metal. Gingerly I did so. "Throw it in," said Sherlock. "It'll be good, come on!"

I hesitated and then tossed the powder into the fire. For a fraction of a second nothing happened, and then bright white sparks exploded and shot up the chimney.

"What was that one?" I asked.

"Oh that was just magnesium. Bit boring really…try this one." He held out another jar, which also appeared to contain metal filings. Confidently this time, I took a bit and threw it fire-wards. The flames blazed deep red. "Woah – Satanic!" Sherlock said, with the red of the flames reflecting momentarily in his eyes. "Alright, my go," and he pulled a glove off my hand.

"Alright, alright!" I pulled the other glove off and gave it to him.

Sherlock opened a smaller jar and took out a tiny pinch. "I use this one quite a lot, so we've got to be sparing with it," he explained, and scattered it into the flames, which became flecked with purple.

"What was it?"

"Potassium."

"Give us another shot…"

"No it's still my go, you had two in a row!"

I sighed, and Sherlock unscrewed a fifth jar, extracted the metal and applied it to the fire. This time it turned bright green. "I like Boron," he said, and threw a second handful in.

I reached for one of the jars, but he snatched it away. "No, that one's manganese – it's rubbish. It just goes yellow. Flames are yellow anyway! Try this one, you can take loads. I get it as a by-product, and failing that, out of cereal."

"_Cereal?_"

"Yep, all you have to do is crush it up and suspend a magnet over it overnight. In the morning all the bits of iron they put in it to fortify it are stuck to the magnet."

"You're joking."

"I never joke about chemistry. Go on then…" and I threw some into the flames, which turned gold.

"Let's try two together," I suggested.

"Alright…we'll try strontium with arsenic," Sherlock said.

"Strontium's the red one, is it?"

"Yes."

"Give me one of the gloves," I told him.

"Why?"

"I want to try something."

"What?"

"Just something, alright? Now, hold out your hand." Now it was Sherlock's turn to hesitate. "Do it," I said. He did so. "Palm up…" He turned it over. I sprinkled a bit of arsenic to the left of his palm, magnesium in the middle and strontium to the right. "Ok close your hand carefully," I told him, "And throw it in the fire, without disturbing the order."

His hand closed. "One…two…three!" And he threw. There was a whooshing crackle, and the colours of the French flag blazed for a second, before disappearing.

"What's that?"

"The French Flag."

"Oh…" Sherlock said. "I didn't think of that. What are some other ones?"

"Let's try Italy," I said. "Where's the Boron?"

-/-/-

We were happily absorbed in chemical-abuse when there was a soft knock at our door. Mrs Hudson came in to find us staring at her with twin looks of guilt, while the fire sputtered and the green from the Boron died away.

"Gracious! Whatever are you doing?" she asked incredulously.

"We're throwing metals into the fire to see what colour the flames go," Sherlock explained.

"Is that wise?"

"Well we haven't had an explosion yet…"

"Any news?" I asked her.

"Yes." She was smiling. "I spoke to Mark."

"And what did he say?" Sherlock threw one last handful of strontium into the fire and stood up to face her in the resulting red glow.

"He says Zoe's doing much better. She should be out before the week is out. And guess what? They're getting married at last! He proposed and she said yes!"

"Yes very good," he interrupted. "Anything relevant to the case?"

"Only that Zoe's in the clear too. The evidence you uncovered coupled with the forensic report showed she didn't kill the man."

"And have they identified this elusive man?"

"Yes." She smiled conspiratorially.

"And…?"

"His name was Thomas Riley."

"Ahhh…" Sherlock nodded his new understanding. "So Tessa's husband was tracking her for revenge, _while _she was tracking Zoe, also for revenge!"

Mrs Hudson suddenly looked afraid, and very serious. "He told me…now, you mustn't tell anyone this, alright?"

"It depends what it is," Sherlock said.

Mrs Hudson hesitated, and twisted her fingers. "He told me it was _him _who wiped the fingerprints off the knife when he found Zoe and the man. He thought she had killed him, like the police did at first…and he didn't want her to get in trouble."

"Isn't that conspiracy?" I asked, addressing Sherlock.

He nodded. "He could be charged for that, yes. And on top of that he's removed our only definitive proof that the crime was committed by Tessa Reid."

"So…what's going to happen?" Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock thought for a few minutes. Finally: "I think we have enough data to deduce that it was Tessa, and not Zoe," he said at last. "So I'm not going to say anything about that. It can't do any good now."

Mrs Hudson passed a hand over her face. "Dear me, what a terrible mess it's all been!" she said, and gave a shaky little laugh.

"It's not over yet," Sherlock reminded her. "We've still got to find Tessa."

-/-/-

I didn't sleep well that night. I lay in bed awake, with the urge to repeatedly check our blogs to see if anyone had replied. I also kept thinking I heard the phone ring, or a knock at the door, but it was just Sherlock droning on his violin, or prowling around. Eventually he fell silent though, and I began to doze off. I had just started a nice little dream about a pig being given false teeth for its birthday, when something tickled my foot.

Now, there have been times abroad when I've either had to sleep rough, or in very basic conditions. It's not that I'm _afraid_, it's just that one has to be very conscious of the wildlife around themselves. Living abroad I was on the lookout for poisonous snakes and spiders, which could crawl into a sleeping bag or accidentally wander into your food if you were cooking out of doors. There haven't been that many reported fatalities from spider bites but some, like the Black Widow, can give you very nasty swelling. And there _have_ been several deaths from snake bites, especially the cobra. So when I felt that tickle on my foot, my half-asleep brain thought I was back in the army, and about to be bitten and I leapt up with a cry. Which, of course, is the last thing you should do in that situation, but I never did get used to the thought of a bite in the night.

As I hit out, something stumbled backwards and slammed into the door of my room, which promptly slammed shut. Then the light was turned on and Sherlock was looking at me with wide eyes, from against the wall.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, don't do that…"

"I only brushed your foot!" he muttered.

"Yeah well, I thought you were a poisonous snake or something."

He wrinkled his nose. "Oh." We both gathered our wits back up.

"What do you want? It's four in the morning."

"I don't want to do this case anymore. I'm going to turn it over to Lestrade."

That woke me up properly. "What? Why?"  
He twisted a corner of the duvet. "We've traced her halfway across the world and she's got away every time. And now we're hanging on the prospective word of the police or some tiny minded reader somewhere."

"Well what's wrong with that?"

He shrugged. "It's not right for my abilities. I was designed for observation and deduction, and now I've got nothing to observe or deduce, and no plan." He dropped his gaze. "It's just…not a nice feeling, John."

"Have you ever had a normal job?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "I spent two days in a charity shop sorting donations. I hated it. Too much data and no use for it."

"And you spent two years at university before dropping out. Why?"

"The course got boring. And they were teaching it in a stupid way."

"So you've never stuck at anything once you've decided it's boring or going wrong or not suited to your brain? You've always dropped out or passed it on?"

He paused, and a series of expressions flitted across his face as he considered what I was saying.

"When I was at university," I said, "I loved lectures, and I actually enjoyed the studying as well. And I liked lab sessions and demonstrations. But I absolutely loathed tutorials, and rounds too later on. Not sure why – maybe it was the thought of being asked things to test my knowledge, and being asked by someone who was so much higher up the ladder than me.

"So?"

"I'm just saying, I don't regret sticking with it at all, but there's always going to be bits about medicine that I don't like or am bad at. But overall it's worth it."

"But if I can't solve the case, then what's the point?"

"Sherlock, come on," I said, and I forced a derisive laugh. "Look at Lestrade. Look at Anderson and Donovan, and how they approach such a case. Are you saying _they _would be better at sorting this out than you?"

He gave a small chuckle. "You're a consulting detective," I continued. "You're supposed to be able to reason out the important stuff just from a single consultation. If you really can't stop moping sleep it off. It's out of their hands as much as yours."

He looked as if he wanted to say something back, but closed his mouth. Then he dropped his gaze and thought for a moment, before looking at me again. "Thank you," he said, and he left the room.

-/-/-

I settled back into bed and closed my eyes again. When I opened them he was back, and it was half nine in the morning. "Someone answered the blog post, John! Get up quickly." With that he had disappeared downstairs again. I followed him, and he handed me the phone receiver. "Call that number," he demanded, and pointed to the screen, where his blog comments were displayed, one of which read: "I believe I can help you. My mobile number is 07789 102 237."

"Why me?"

"Because I need to think." He went to the window and looked down at the road, and the traffic down below. "Hurry up," he added curtly.

"Ok, ok…keep your skirt on…"

I dialled and waited for someone to pick up.

"Hello?" The voice was young, male and cheery.

"Hello, I'm Doctor John Watson. I'm a colleague of Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You left a comment on Sherlock's blog."

There was a pause. Then, more quietly: "Yeah. Yeah that's right, I did. I'm at Stapleford airfield. Can you come over anytime today?"

"Of course. About twelve?"

"Yeah, that's fine. I'll be wearing a green hoodie."

"Thanks. See you there."

-/-/-

But after making some investigations on the internet it became clear that we would have transport problems. A taxi there and back was more expensive than it was worth for that distance, there was no train station and only one bus, the station of which was on the outskirts of the city and difficult for us to get to without a car. Mrs Hudson found driving difficult with her hip, Sherlock had never learned to drive, and I had a license but no car. So I called our source back and put the phone on speaker.

"It's going to be difficult for us to get over. Do you have a videolink there or anything?"

"Er…wait a minute…" he was gone for a bit, and then he returned. "Sorry. I can text you pictures though, if you need them. Although I don't have any of the girl."

I raised my eyebrows at Sherlock. "No it should be fine thanks. Just tell us what you know."

"Ok," said our source. "It's not a lot, but one of my friends does private flights. He took a client up yesterday. She had red hair and her first name was Tessa.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Oh, that's clever…" he whispered.

"What?"

"She knew she was being tracked. She knew, so she found a private flight instead of one in an airport we'd be watching. You see John? She's always one step ahead of us."

"Do you have the booking information?" I asked our source.

"Yep," and then there was the sound of pages turning. "Tessa Riley, 9am to Glisy aerodrome, North of France."

"Excellent, that means we can catch her as she comes off the plane," Sherlock said, looking very relieved. "I thought this case would never end! I'll tell Lestrade to get in contact with them."


	93. The End of the Box

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Lestrade and the police did manage to ensure someone was waiting at the aerodrome for the plane to come in…but as it happened, it never did.

About two thirds of the way into the flight Liam, the pilot, reported that something sounded strange in the engine. Shortly after this the radio cut out, and the plane disappeared off the radar a few minutes later. It was hoped that if there was a fault, it was minor enough for the plane to touch down unhurt in a field somewhere. Then the police got it into their heads that it was all some master plan by Tessa to get off the grid and escape again, so a search was mounted of the countryside surrounding the place where the plane disappeared from the radar. This all happened on the 30th.

And about twenty-four hours later, the wreck of the plane was discovered with Liam's registration number. An electrical fault had occurred. A wire had snapped and generated a spark, which had in turn ignited the fuel tank. The engine and a chunk of the wing had been blown off in the resulting explosion, sending the plane spiralling nose-first out of the sky. Neither occupant survived the crash.

"She was clever," Sherlock mused. "She manipulated all of us. Even me for a while, but I would have checkmated her in the end."

"She could have flown underneath the radar and staged a landing somewhere remote."

"Possibly," he conceded, and tapped his fingers idly against the armrest of his chair. Then his hand clenched. "Why do the clever ones all die?"

"How do you mean?"

"Sometimes it feels like natural selection is weeding out all the intelligent people. Soon we'll only have sheep, or petty thieves. There will be no crimes and no criminals. And then what will people like me do?" He lapsed into unintelligible grumbling, and then fell silent.

We tried to carry on as normal in Baker Street, but a curious stillness reigned all day, like suspended animation. Lestrade came over in the evening, supposedly to discuss the final report. But in fact the four of us simply sat by the fire in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts.

It was Mrs Hudson who broke that silence. "That pilot. His poor family. I just don't want to think about it. But as for Tessa…It's wrong to say it, but I'm really glad we don't have to worry about those two anymore. Thomas and Tessa Riley. Nasty work, the both of them."

"And yet nobody's born like that," I volunteered.

"Maybe, but she still did those bad things. It doesn't change that for me," Mrs Hudson said, in a tone of voice which showed there was no point in arguing. "I think," she continued, "That we need to move on from this case." She addressed Lestrade. "Will you see the New Year in with us?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, but the noise that came out his mouth sounded much more like "Em" than "Ahem."

Lestrade glanced at him for a split second. "Er, I've got plans already," he said. "But thanks for the offer."

Later in the evening normality began to resume itself. Mrs Hudson went back downstairs. Sherlock typed up his case notes to archive. I watched the New Year festivities with the television volume turned down low while he worked. We heard the fireworks going off outside, and were able to see red flashes from through the curtains.

"That'll be strontium," I commented and got a smile and grunt from Sherlock in response. I felt oddly peaceful and content. It's such a universal celebration, New Year. The only one that truly crosses all boundaries of race, religion, ability, education and location without being materialistic or commercial. And it shows us at our least cynical as well – ready to assume good faith and welcome in a New Year with optimism.

Before I retired to bed, I managed to persuade Sherlock to join me with a glass of wine as midnight arrived. His toast: "To the New Ear."

My reply: "Ear ear."


	94. Sherlock's Birthday Menu

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

_[After the lemon cake with a few friends, we gave Sherlock a birthday card which explained that if he wanted to know what his present was, he would have to check my blog. This is the entry to which I was referring him.]_

Remember how Lestrade dug up that murder case at the nudist colony last year (which, by the way, I still cannot believe you investigated by going undercover…)? The way he notified you in the style of a birthday present set me thinking, so last week I put out a plea for cases. Much as we all would like to celebrate your birthday with you in a traditional way (well, maybe not Anderson and Donovan, but certainly the others), we know you'd prefer to work. You've always been good about Christmases, and since today is your birthday and yours alone, we thought you should spend it in the way you wanted to. Therefore, we have drawn you up a menu which we think you will enjoy. If you can't deduce enough about the items to make an order, just ask one of the chefs.

-/-/-

**_Starters_**

- Beaten gambler

- Tossed teenage waitress

- Bog body au gratin

**_Main Courses_**

- Mild, tender elephant, carved up, with hot couple coated in fraud

- Cormorant with battered politician served with a light house

- Rare fish and extra-corny admirer

**_Desserts_**

- Bitter marriage split

- Whipped art dealer with chopped painting

**_Drinks_**

- Extra strong Greek accent

- Rich, blended personalities

**_Side Dishes_**

- Barcelona nut

- Topped salesman

- Kentish blood pudding

-/-/-

_[Do I have to make a choice, or can I take them all?]_

_[You can't possibly take them all and live]_

_[Please, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Some of them will be easy]_

_[If they were easy we wouldn't have put them on the menu. You can have a think about it if you like]_

_[Well, what's the cormorant one?]_

_[Come offline and I'll tell you in person. It's a bit sensitive for on here…]_

_[Alright then.]_


	95. A People Person

_**Posted by Sherlock M. Holmes**_

I would not normally bother documenting my own cases, since for whatever reason John seems to have a much more popular writing style than me. But short as this case was, there were some aspects about it that make it, so far, unique in my career. The second reason I'm going to attempt to document it is that I believe John would want a record of it somewhere. Names have been changed for privacy, except for mine, John's, Harry's and the people in the police station.

From my perspective the case began on the morning of this Friday past – January 13th, with a phone call on the landline, interrupting a very nice little composition I was working on. The number was an 020 one, and there was no point in ignoring it, since the first ring made me lose my thread in the piece anyway. But as a result my 'hello' definitely came out harsher than perhaps I had intended it to. Not that the person on the other end seemed to care. In fact, he didn't give me any kind of greeting, but launched into a barrage of what I assumed at the time to be just incoherent ravings, in a deep voice with a very thick London accent.

"It's Sherlock Holmes isn't it? Right well I know you like things put straight to you, and like I'm not the best with words, but what the hell, I'll just go for it and see what comes out, yeah? It's my right winger number two, yeah? Gordon Staunton, I mean all the others we can sub but he holds the whole lot together, you know. He's the fastest of them all and he can do the lot, passing, tackling, dribbling, but not just that, his strategy's also flawless. I mean ones with good reflexes but no judgement come ten-a-penny, but him, he's like, one in a million, yeah? I mean I could put one of the halves on instead, but Rick – he's probably second fastest but he always edges right in the scrum and he's…well…between you and me he's as thick as a post, like I was saying. And he can't sprint either, and that's just no good – you can't have a wing player that can't sprint or scrum or make judgements! Not when you're pitched against the Leicesters – I mean look at 'em, they'll slam us! So it's gotta be Gordon."

At first I'd listened to all this with increasing confusion, and then I realised that it would be pointless trying to cut in. I considered just hanging up, but at the same time I was curious. I obviously needed to upgrade the software in my hard-drive if someone came to me with a problem I couldn't make head or tail of. So while I waited for nature to force him to take a breath, I turned on my laptop and googled 'Criminal Gordon Staunton', 'Detective Inspector Gordon Staunton', 'Police Gordon Staunton', 'court Gordon Staunton' and 'Convicted Gordon Staunton'. I found no useful results, even when I placed inverted commas around 'Gordon Staunton' to narrow the search.

Once the caller paused, I interrupted with: "You must have made a mistake. There's a Tony Staunton in America, convicted of manslaughter. And there's a P. Staunton in Oxford who attempted to rob a bank, but he was caught by me because of the baked bean juice on his work shirt. But no relevant record of a Gordon Staunton."

"Well he's not exactly widely know yet, is he? I mean we're an amateur team after all – "

" – I think it would be best if you started at the beginning," I told him. "Who are you?"

"Daniel Overton."

"And how are you connected to this Mr Gordon Staunton?"

"I'm his coach."

"His coach?"

"Yeah. Like I was saying, and we've got this big match coming up. Well I say big, there's a cup involved. Granted it's just painted silver but you know, been a rough year and we need something to boost morale."

"Look," I said, losing patience. "Tell me clearly, what is it you coach?"

"Rugby," said Daniel Overton, sounding as if he thought_ I_ was the mad one. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No. I don't deal in amateur sport – far too sweet and healthy. All fair play and fresh air. I observe and deduce, Mr Overton, and unless you tell me the _facts_ clearly and objectively, I'm no more use to you as a detective than I would be as a player on your team."

There was a long pause at the end of the phone. "I'd better come up," he said, and immediately the buzzer rang.

Daniel Overton is one of the few people I have felt dwarfed by, with the exception of Leon, the researcher in Africa all those years back. He had to stoop to get through the door, and his shoulders were wide enough to frame the doorway. His eyebrows were thick and brown and were drawn down close to his eyes, and his face had an almost carved skin texture, which suggested to me that he habitually wore the same facial expression, and had done so for years. Even now it didn't change – he just gave a silent nod, before inviting himself into the living room and sitting in John's chair. I could see old sweat overlaid by new sweat around his neck, and his hair had not been combed for at least two nights, showing that something at least, had been affecting him badly for more than one day. The shirt he wore carried grass and dirt stains of several different types, despite having been washed repeatedly, and as he sat down I noticed the traces of mud that were left from his shoes. But his eyes, underneath the frown, were imploring. There was a fromage frais sitting on the coffee table (the new coffee table Mrs Hudson had ordered in, and which is made of oak – the strongest kind of wood there is), and I offered this to him, but he declined.

"Now then," I said, sitting down as well. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"Right well it's pretty simple really," he said, "But it's got me stumped so I thought maybe you could help. Cos I know you work with the police but you also do private cases."

"It depends what the case is. I don't do boring."

"Ok, this Gordon Staunton who I just mentioned earlier…he's done a runner. And tomorrow we play against the Leicesters for the cup, and if he doesn't come back then we're gonna lose. Simple as that."

"Not that I care much about your game," I said, "But I'll take the case as I've nothing else to do, and it might be worth making sure he's not in any danger. When did you last see him?"

"About this time last week," said Daniel Overton, "At the club. On the pitch and I was giving him a rapping – he'd been slacking off the past couple of weeks, and I was telling him he needed to be at his best when his phone went off."

"A text?"

"A call."

"And what was it?"

"I dunno. I only heard his end."

"And what did he say?"

"He said 'Christ'! And then nothing for a bit and then 'Alright.' He was white as a sheet and then he sort of stumbled off. I shouted at him to get back in here and stand by us, and he just said something about having a headache. I let him go cos he's always turned up rain or shine. Until now that is."

"Hmmm…" I said, and I ran through the possibilities in my mind. "You said he was slacking off. Was he ill?"

"A bit breathless maybe, a few colds in a row, but nothing big."

"Have you got a picture of him?" I asked. "A recent picture?"

Daniel Overton dug in his pocket and brought out his camera phone. He showed me the picture, which was sharp but small. A medium-built man with a mop of ginger hair, a beak-like nose and a smile filled with white teeth. His arms were folded across his chest, and sported multiple bruises, as did his legs. He was wearing a Blackheath top. Blackheath rang a bell in my mind. Well, several to be precise, but one in particular that I was struggling to place. It wasn't case-related, but then that left chemistry, violin and not a lot else. Something someone said, but I couldn't think what.

"Email me it," I said at last.

"Don't have a lead to get it on the computer," Daniel Overton said. I fished my phone out and photographed the photograph. The resolution was absolutely terrible as a result, but at least it would suffice for identification purposes.

"Have you done any investigations yourself?" I asked.

"Well I tried texting him. We all tried texting him, but we didn't get a reply. Then Bob on the team knew the number of one close mutual friend, and he sent a text asking him to text Gordon to find out what the hell was going on. Bob said he'd text me backif he heard anything."

"So not a very substantial investigation. And have they?"

"Have they what?"

"Texted back, keep up."

"No they haven't."

"And you've no way to tell who was on the phone to Staunton during that last phone conversation where he walked out?"

"Nope."

I scribbled down my mobile number for Overton, got up to stretch my legs and to think, and picked up my violin. "I can't promise I'll find him on such little data," I warned him. "And I also can't promise that if I find him I'll be able to make him play the match."

"Oh don't worry, I'll manage all that," said Overton, who was looking considerably brighter. Well, as bright as his scowly face allowed at any rate. He stood up. "How much do I owe you?"

"I won't ask for payment until after I've solved the case," I said, and started to play a prelude by Haydn, by way of serenading him to the door.

The next two hours I spent in my mind palace. There are also lots of rooms there. And all the rooms look the same. There are no windows. The rooms are all roughly circular, but with corners and edges into which are set several open doors each leading down another corridor, and all these doors have a metal name plate on them with a possibility or option engraved on it. As I dismiss each possibility each door closes, until I'm left with just one still open, which I then go through and down a corridor until I come to another room of doors. Which is the next step in the logic sequence. I can summon any piece of data from my hard drive at any time to help me in the process of closing off the incorrect doors. Of course, it all happens much faster than that in real life, and I've grown so used to the process that doing has almost become almost a subconscious thing for me. In this instance though, I was trapped, because of that one vital piece of information about Blackheath that seemed to have leaked out my hard drive.

Just as I was prowling around my mind-room, growing increasingly frustrated, I felt a hand on my shoulder, with cool, relatively bony fingers. "Wakey wakey!" Mrs Hudson said, "You've been sitting there for two hours! I came and went four times and you didn't move."

"Does Blackheath mean anything to you?" I asked, looking up at her as she stood over me.

She shook her head. "Sorry, dear. I can't say it does. Why, is it important?"

"It might be vital," I said. "I'm going out for a bit."

Out on the street my head cleared somewhat. I contemplated my previous comments and decided that perhaps after all, more fresh air might be a good idea. Then I wracked my brains some more as I walked. I became so absorbed that I walked smack bang into a shorter man walking in the opposite direction who uttered the words 'Ow," and "Sherlock!"

"John!" I said, "Just the man I need," and I grabbed his arm and hauled him, protesting, over to a quiet corner of the street.

"Look, I really can't stop, I was just picking up a few things," he said.

"They're not important, it's this case and I need your help."

"Well it'll have to wait then," he said, and tried to leave but I grabbed him again. "Let go!" He tried to shake me off.

"John, a man's life may depend on it!"

"Yeah well, a man's happiness may depend on this!" he said, holding up a carrier bag.

"What have you got?" I asked him, snatched the bag and peeked in. "Bubble gum," I remarked, "And a book of crosswords. And what paper's this? Hmm…Express and star…they do a Blackheath News section…" And suddenly I remembered where Blackheath fitted. "You! You lived in Blackheath with your dad!"

"Yes, why?"

"Do you know the amateur rugby club there?"

"I played for it," he said.

Doctor, soldier, sportsman, marksman, assistant detective…this man seemed to have no limits, and I was beginning to realise that whilst he may not have a brain of the same calibre as mine, his wide pool of knowledge certainly seemed on every occasion to be an advantage, rather than a drawback.

"Then do you know this man?" I asked, and showed him the picture on my phone.

I have never before seen John react in the way he did to that picture. It was like a mask came up over his face. This was actually quite shocking for me, because of the implications. John, when remaining detached, can pass rigorous lie detection tests, but in this instance I had caught him off guard. A look of feigned callousness came into his eyes and the angle of his mouth, head and eyebrows changed. Not only did he have a personal connection with Gordon Staunton then, but he was prepared to betray my trust in him as a friend in order to honour that connection. "No, did he play for them too?" He asked, barely looking at the picture.

"John, you know he did," I said.

"Must have played at a different time from me then," John said, and tried to disappear.

"Where is he?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well then I'll follow you."

"No you won't," and here John looked boldly into my eyes, in his confrontational manner.

"Do you honestly think you can outsmart me?"

"I'm going to bloody well try if it keeps that bastard of a brother away from him."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, seizing on this information, "So you _do _know him then?"

"Look, I've got nothing to say, and if you value our friendship, you'll leave me alone."

I hung back and watched him walking down the street, before hailing a cab. "I know it's an odd request," I told the cab driver, "But I'm an undercover detective," and I showed him Lestrade's ID. "You see that man walking down the street? The short one with blonde hair in the black coat?"

"Yes…"

"I want you to follow him, but he mustn't know you're following him. Alright? I'll tip twenty per cent instead of ten if you do."

"Is following him legal?"

"He's been trying to dodge us, so yes."

Once I had convinced the cab driver, he proved to be exceptionally good at tailing John. He would pass by, turn down a street and then do a point turn before returning back down the street. He would go round roundabouts several times. At one point John took a shortcut but we found him again.

Three blocks down, John stopped at a bus stop. The taxi driver pulled in at the kerb, and I saw John glance over, and his gaze fix. I berated myself inside my head for priming him to be suspicious of a stationary cab with nobody getting into or out of it. He crossed over and knocked on the window. "Excuse me," he said to the cab driver with an ingratiating smile, "I couldn't help noticing your client isn't getting into or out of your taxi."

"Er no…" said the cab driver. "No, he's…lost." I closed my eyes. This line of investigation was lost now for sure.

"Where did you want to get to?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," I said, holding up my ID. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Well that's funny," said John, "Because I was just talking to Detective Inspector Lestrade over there. Greg!" he called out, and to my horror I saw Lestrade stride over.

"This gentleman might have something of yours. I'll take the cab thanks," he told the cab driver.

Two minutes later I helped John into the taxi and closed the door for him, before waving.

"You ought to count yourself very lucky. Again," said Lestrade as we stood side by side on the kerb. "I'll tell you how I live with all the slack I cut you, shall I? It's because you're so ignorant. No, don't tell me anything, I don't want to know. I am going to assume, against my better judgement, that you didn't know that what you were doing there was highly illegal, and could have landed you with a custodial sentence."

I nodded and looked down at my feet.

"This is my first and last warning. If I find any more of my ID cards have gone missing I am going to seek you out for questioning. And if need be I'll come down on you with the full force of the law, is that clear?"

I nodded again.

"Good. No hard feelings. Now if you don't mind Em will be waiting…"

As soon as the words were out he realised what he had said and cleared his throat quickly. "Er, M. is a code-name. Short for Morstan."

"If it's a code you probably shouldn't be telling me. But I'll let it pass this once," I told him, with an inward grin.

"Yes, well…" he paused, gave a tight smile and walked away.

At that moment a text message came through on my phone. "Nice try, Sherlock. I'm on the lookout now," from John. I chuckled at the ridiculousness of his text, because when I closed the door of the taxi for him, I placed a Pompe device under the door handle. A Pompe device is a sticky-based, 24-hour-duration, phone-tracked digital tracker, about the size of a five pence piece. It's called a Pompe device because if the target has done anything immoral, then the end is nigh for them.

Now I opened up my Pompe phone app, typed in the code of that particular tracker and began the tracking process. It turned out the cab was resting in a small backstreet just off from Wellington Hospital, after a long and winding route. Judging by the contents of John's bag, he had been going to the hospital itself so the back-street final destination had been a further attempt to throw me off course. "Very good, John," I whispered. If I hadn't put my Pompe tracker on the cab, the ruses may well have worked.

I took a shortcut, and during this time the line representing the route didn't move at all. Either the cab was waiting for a very long time, or someone had removed the tag. I zoomed further in to the route. A Pompe tracker can be pinpointed to within a metre, and my phone was telling me it was just off to the right of the road. Upon arriving in Allitsen road, I could see no cabs anywhere, so if the route mapped out was to be believed, the Pompe tracker was thrown somewhere to the right side of the road. I zoomed in and switched to satellite, which gave me a view of the landmarks on either side of where the route stopped, stood in the exact place, and looked to the right. There was a large pedal bin, and after digging around in this for five minutes, I discovered the Pompe device, which I crushed underfoot.

Then I sat down and went to my mind palace again. John knew Gordon. Neither John nor myself or Mrs Hudson like bubble gum, and he reads all his news online. Therefore the newspaper and the gum were for someone else. Who in this street or the surrounding ones would require a newspaper to be taken to them? And who would want a newspaper specifically with a Blackheath News section? And who would John know well enough to be picking these things up on behalf of?

I glanced at the photo again. At the bruises on the arms and thought back to Overton's words. He had had a few colds back to back. He had been slacking and seemed a bit unfit. The smallest of theories began to form in my mind. To me, although it was not a solid clue, there was enough evidence to at least merit an experiment. I walked the short distance to the Wellington hospital and approached the main reception, adopting a stressed and upset manner.

"Excuse me," I said to the receptionist, with a tremor in my voice. "I – um – I'm here to see Gordon Staunton."

"Are you family?"

"His brother."

"Room thirty, second floor. Follow the signs to oncology," said the receptionist in a bored voice which, unbeknownst to her, confirmed my theory and answered all my questions.

Room thirty was a private room, and when I put my ear to the door I heard voices. And one of them was John's. At that moment a doctor I knew – doctor Draco Williams, came strolling down the corridor. "Afternoon, Sherlock!" he called, in his distinctive voice which used to carry all round the laboratory at Bart's before he decided to work in a private hospital with rich people.

I heard the voices inside stop at my name, and knew that if I wanted to see the man for myself, then I had to do it now before John came out. So I opened the door and went in.

The scene that met my eyes was a sad one, and not one to be easily forgotten. The man on the bed was Gordon Staunton, without a doubt. But he looked different from the photo. His face was pasty. His eyes were bloodshot. His arm had an IV drip in, and the drip bag had a yellow hazard symbol on it. The mop of hair had become untidy and severely thinned out. There was an emesis basin on the table next to the bed. Gordon Staunton lay back on the pillows in a listless manner, and started at me with wide, resigned eyes. Meanwhile, John sat in the chair on the other side of the bed, staring at me and holding the crossword book, with his pen poised in mid-air.

"So you caught up with me," Gordon Staunton murmured.

"Er, this is my friend Sherlock," John said, jumping up. "Sherlock, step outside?"

In the corridor, John bounced on the balls of his feet for a full thirty seconds before giving way to a quiet outburst. "Bloody hell Sherlock, that was…that was completely out of order."

"It was a case..."

"So what? There are lines and you have to know when to draw them. Was it that brother whose been trying to blackmail him out of his money for the past two years? Did he set you on Gordon's trail?"

"No it was the coach. Daniel Overton."

John paused. "That's not quite so bad. Look. I'm all for detection if it helps catch criminals, but when you pry into other peoples' lives like that I put my foot down. Gordon doesn't need everyone on his rugby team pitying him, or lamenting the loss of his skills as a quarter, and he doesn't need the coach going on and on about how if only he'd been well he could have helped them win this match."

"No, I see what you mean," I said, and then added with a bit of resentment, "I _can_ keep a secret, you know, John."

"But you took it on as a case. Surely that means you _have _to tell Overton?"

"I don't _have _to do anything," I said. "Nobody's committed a crime, so it's none of my business."

After a few seconds the mask faded from John's face, and was replaced by relief, and finally embarrassment. He dropped his gaze. "If I'd thought it through logically…" he muttered.

"Thought what through logically?"

"I should have trusted you. I'm sorry." And he held out a hand and I shook it.

This is where I would leave the documentation under normal circumstances when reporting a caes, but the day was such an unusual one that I think I'm going to continue to describe it. Besides, John usually blogs, and I think, if he hadn't been so personally involved and affected, he would wish to document the things that happened. He likes irony. As for the following details about Harry, John wanted them to be kept to a minimum until now for her own privacy, but given our prevalence online, and the likelihood of the press connecting the events concerning her to us, he thought that an honest admission of the difficulties she has had would be preferable to the public seeing her as a criminal.

-/-/-

John was very quiet and subdued when he left the hospital. He looked at the floor as he walked, although his eyes were looking inwards in thought. "You usually have lunch at one," I reminded him.

"Not hungry," he muttered.

"Don't eat when you're sad?" John grunted.

Then my mobile rang, with the number of Emily Hicks from the police station. "Emily," I said.

"Hi Sherlock. Sorry to disturb you but Lestrade was out and you weren't picking up at the flat."

"What is it? A case?"

"No…actually I wanted to speak to John but I've not got his mobile and I know you and him work together, so I thought I'd call and try and get hold of him through you. Is that ok?"

"Yes, here he is," I said and handed the phone to John.

As John spoke his face fell even further. "Not again!" he said. "Right. Look, I'm really sorry about all the trouble. Just try and keep her calm, and we'll be there as quickly as possible. And thanks a lot for contacting me." He hung up and let out a big sigh.

"What's wrong now?" I asked.

"It's Harry," John said in a dead voice. "She took mum's credit card, spent all the money on CDs and then tried to smuggle out even more. And then she assaulted the security officer."

"Not good," I said.

"A bit not good," he replied.

It was a slightly odd feeling being in the police station without a case to pursue. We found Harry spinning in a chair, with a policeman standing nearby attempting to her calm her down. As she spun, she was talking at him in a very high, fast, strident voice about her plan to go back to university, become an architect and redesign St. Paul's Cathedral because it was aligned wrongly, and then about how she had worked out that ivy was planted on walls by the ancestors of criminals in order to give their descendants an easier chance at burgling the houses, and then about how she was going to design her own champagne specifically for left handed people, made by left handed people that opened clockwise rather than anticlockwise to make it easier for left handed people to open. Intermittently she would laugh, but rather than the light, normal laughter I had heard at the New Year's function the previous year, this was an uncontrolled cackle.

As soon as Harry saw John her manner changed from highly energetic to highly aggressive, and she started shrieking at him. "You _bastard!_" she screeched, and she leapt up and slapped him across the face. "You set them after me! You always make my life a misery, you scumbag! It's always fine until _you _start interfering. What are you going to do now, run to mum and tell on me? Well I hope you're happy, GET OUT OF MY SIGHT," the policeman pushed her back down onto the chair.

"Um…" Emily, who had walked into the room at the sound of the shouting raised her hand to make her presence known. "If you'd like to step through…?"

We followed her and John rubbed his cheek as we walked. "Take a seat," she said and we sat down.

"Harriet's now got two charges of assault – assaulting you and assaulting the security guard, and two of theft – one of the money and one of the CDs. I'm afraid there's not much I can do to change that," she said. "I would if I could, believe me." John nodded. "She should be in custody or at least restrictions imposed before her trial, but I believe for her own safety that she should be taken to hospital for assessment."

"Oh she's been to hospital a few times," John said. "My mum's been looking out for her since she moved into her own place."

"Is there any way you can contact your mother?"

"I could try her mobile I suppose," said John, and he took out his phone and did so.

We waited for John's mother to arrive, out of sight of Harry, because whenever she caught sight of John she would scream vindictive words at him. The tremor in John's hands had returned, and he paced around. "Harry," he said, and I don't think he was addressing me in particular. "Harry is just…all over the place. She's fine for a bit and then she goes _way_ up. And then she goes _way_ down. She's been like that ever since I can remember. I think the booze was partly self-medication."

"Manic depression?"

"She won't accept a diagnosis or drugs."

I nodded, feeling out of my depth. This is a disadvantage of having an assistant and friend, particularly one who is a 'people person'. In order to keep them you necessarily have to acknowledge their problems.

John's mother was in her mid-sixties, with false teeth, and slight far sightedness judging by the angle of her head. She shopped at Debenhams regularly as a hobby, as I could tell by their own-brand sterling silver matching designer necklace, ring and earrings that she wore. To care for another adult and still be able to afford such expensive items meant that this is what she treated herself to, and I make it my business to know where jewellery comes from, as that has in the past allowed me to discover many more leads in the form of shop assistants in the shops the women in question frequent.

When John's mother saw me she looked me up and down. "You're the detective John blogs about," she said. I confirmed this, and she cautiously kissed the air either side of my face. Debenhams perfume as well. She then gave John a very cold look and said "Much as you might believe, John, I _can _keep track of my own family." Then she went in to be with Harry. I looked at John. He was struggling to control his temper and concern, but he simply gave a nod, confirming that the best thing to do now was to leave them to it.

-/-/-

Once we had got away from the hospital I suggested that we could take a walk in Regent's Park. At first John said no, that he'd rather just sit at home. However, I of all people know that doing nothing when one is unhappy can push a person deeper into that unhappiness, and that's why work, or at least action, is the best antidote to sorrow. Therefore I insisted on him coming with me, to which he just sighed and humoured me. We kept to the gardens for the majority of the visit. In the winter sludge and bits of rotting branch accumulate in the water, and I didn't think there was much point walking beside a clogged up pond as a means of escapism. Besides, although it was there were few flowering plants in the garden section, the nineteenth-century fountain was on and the evergreen trees and shrubs, although weather-beaten, stood tall on either side of the paths. There weren't very many people around which was boring from my point of view. There are only so many things one can deduce from blankets, bottles and prams, and the mothers who push them, and the chill of the day kept most of the more interesting pensioners away. However I did see one man of at least eighty years old who was a retired sergeant in the marines. I say he was at least eighty years old because he had a tattoo on his hand associated with the marines in the nineteen forties, but which fell out of use in the mid fifties. Even with his artificial hip which changed his walk a bit, I could see that he had once had a military walk and way of standing, not entirely unlike John's actually. The skin around his sideburns and chin was slightly scarred and rougher in certain places, which showed he'd shaved in the same style for several years a long time ago – a style associated at one point with the marines. Also, he held his chin high and had piercing eyes, which showed he had high self esteem and experience of being in command, and a hat line, all of which pointed to him being a seargent.

As for the most interesting baby, she was wearing a knitted cardigan knitted in pearl stitching, which is a slightly more complex stitch than the more commonly used on. The wool was homespun coarse sheep wool, and tye-dyed unevenly with what appeared to be a home-made dye, since it was mottled and a reddish-brown colour. From these I could tell that the family were probably visitors in the city, or had relatives in the country, but the former seemed more likely as the parents were both together at about three O'clock on a Friday afternoon (suggesting they were on holiday) and they were not pointing at the grass and flowers and fountains, as townspeople would do in a garden, but at beautiful buildings and landmarks, which is more common of people who have come from the country to the town. John broke in on my thoughts: "Right, I've done my duty. Can we go home now?" I conceded, and we walked home in silence together.

Once back at the flat I sat down and brought up a window on my laptop to email Overton. I had planned to tell him that I had found Staunton, but that I had been asked by him and a close friend not to reveal his whereabouts, or why he was absent. But that he should make plans for the game which didn't include Staunton, and be prepared not to see him for at least a few months, and that even if I did tell him where he was and what was going on, Staunton would still be unable to play, so it would be both deceptive and illogical of me to go back on my word.

However, I didn't write the email just then, because John distracted me. "The message light's flashing," he said and pressed the 'play' button on the answerphone. "Hi John, it's Pete here. Long time no speak," said a gravelly voice. "Listen, could you ring me back? I've been trying to reach you all afternoon. I couldn't get you on your mobile either. Thanks."

As soon as the message ended John rang back. I watched with interest. "Pete? It's John here, sorry I was out…"

His voice trailed off. He went very still. He blinked several times. "I'm…" he cleared his throat and seemed to speak with immense difficulty. "I'm sorry," he said. "Look, I'll ring – well then just tell them I'm…thinking of them. He was…" and here his voice cracked a little. "He was a great man. Saved my life. More than once. Take care then."

He hung up. He leant against the wall. He crossed the room in several jerky strides, picked up the fromage frais and ground it into a pulp, before collapsing into his desk chair and resting his head on one hand.

"Was that someone you knew in the army?" I asked. He didn't respond. "I think it is," I said, "Because you said he saved your life, and that suggests you were in a perilous situation, and it would make sense, with you at least, for that to relate to your time in the army. And the things you were saying obviously meant he was dead."

I crossed the room to stand next to the chair. "This is why I keep my field so narrow," I said as gently as I knew how. "If you care about people, and try and stay in touch with people they just become distractions – "

Before I could say "Except you I suppose," there was a crash as John's chair turned over and he stood up to face me with a look in his eyes that, for second, made me realise how much the other side must have once feared him. When I say that I momentarily feared him more than I had Moriarty, I am being completely serious.

For a few moments we stared at each other, and then John simply walked out the room.

-/-/-

Fifteen minutes later, having sent my email to Overton, I became curious and went through to John's room to see what was going on. I had learned from experience to approach his bedroom with caution and to listen carefully for any sounds prior to entering. There were none and so I opened the door.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, and his eyes had tears in them. "Don't commit suicide," I said. I didn't think he would but then, he had just surprised me with his anger.

He looked up at me and his lips twitched in a sad, hollow way. "No, Sherlock," he said, and I was surprised and touched at the affection with which he spoke. "I would never do that. Ever."

"Good," I replied.

"Must have been a strange day for you," John said. "You must have found it hard to understand."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm?"

"Well I don't have _much _data, but there's always one thing that provides a good distraction when all else fails…"

"And what's that?"

"Looking down a microscope," I told him. "Come on."

-/-/-

That evening John lit a candle, which burned until I blew it out at four in the morning.

Of course John wasn't normal the next day, but he seemed calmer. He's been very polite to me over the weekend. I wonder if it may be because it seems to him as if his other friends are dropping like flies. I would have thought he would be used to that after serving in the army but then, he must have assumed he was away from that aspect of it when he left. Although technically Staunton hasn't dropped yet. At least I assume he hasn't, as I haven't asked about him. It would be pointless to do so. The last I heard of it was Saturday evening when John carried out a text conversation with him, following the Blackheath team losing to the Leicester match as Overton predicted:

'Could have been worse. I could have been a professional rugby player and let them all down twice as hard.'

'Or you could have been a professional footballer,' John texted back.

'Oh Christ no, I couldn't face all the hair gel,' was his reply, which made John laugh.

And as far as I know Harry is stable. John would have told me if she wasn't.

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BLOG COMMENTS

You documented Soul yourself.

Those were email replies to you.

They broke off. Any chance of picking up?

I will when I get the time.


	96. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 1

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Corpses

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If I had a choice I would always go to the morgue if I wished to relax. I find it a very peaceful place to be. There's little chance of being disturbed, and it's certainly not the place for social chit-chat. I can never understand people's unease in morgues, not least in a hospital one. The bodies stored there are fresh, and if they started to decompose health and safety laws would require them to be removed immediately. And if they _were _going to come to life in a supernatural way, it would be illogical for them to remain confined to the morgue. And if they weren't actually dead in the first place and underwent spontaneous revival, all it would take to calm any fear would be a little knowledge of biology. Besides, walking up and down the rows, looking at all the individual markings on each body probably does for me what watching television does for normal people – except watching bodies is more interesting because the stories they tell are all true.

Of course, being a member of the public I should never have had access to the morgue, but then all the scientists and technicians who frequented it knew me in some capacity, through various cases Soul and I had worked upon. And even if they hadn't, it doesn't take a genius to observe or deduce a combination code. As for Soul, obviously no dogs were allowed in the morgue or any part of the hospital. This is where the training harness that had come with her when she moved in came in useful, as it denoted her as a service dog. Once in, I would remove it and she would prowl around with her nose in the air, sniffing the various preservatives, find some comfortable spot underneath a slab, and settle down while I pottered.

On this particular occasion I had been wandering up and down between slabs, playing 'guess the cause'. I was feeling somewhat disappointed, as none of the bodies I had examined displayed anything remotely of interest. The unmarked bodies of good weight and healthy appearance were most likely heart attack victims. There was one victim of carbon monoxide poisoning, fresh in that morning and still tinged pink in the face. As I was investigating one small child, I heard a soft clearing of a throat. Despite my objectivity my body reacted instinctively and I jumped violently. Standing in the doorway was a young woman.

Usually I can deduce everything I need about a person from my first glance, but this person was a rare exception. Although she wore make-up, she was in every way extremely plain. From this I surmised, with caution, that she wore her heart on her sleeve. She was new, judging by the revolted look on her face and the fact that if she had chanced upon the wrong room she would have turned on her heel and left; and a student on placement, as the hospital would never employ a person who was as obviously naïve and squeamish as she was. She wore a Bart's Hospital lab coat. One rubber glove dangled in her hand as she stood, perplexed, looking at me from the open doorway.

"You don't work here…" the newcomer said.

"Neither do you. You're an anatomy student," I replied. I approached her and held out my hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

"Oooh, exciting!" She gave a nervous laugh and shook my hand gingerly. "I'm just Molly Hooper..."

"Pleased to meet you, Just Molly Hooper," I said. There was a pattering of feet and Soul emerged from under her slab. "Soul," I said, and I gestured towards her by way of introduction.

"Dogs aren't allowed in hospitals…"

"She's a service dog," I said.

"But you're not blind," said Molly, "You saw me from across the room. And you shook my hand."

"She's a service dog for hypochondria," I said.

Molly laughed. There was an awkward pause. "So…are you solving a murder?" she asked me.

"No, just looking," I replied.

"Looking?"

"Yes." I took her by the hand and led her over to stand in front of the child I had been examining. "What do you see?" I asked her.

She hesitated. "Um…well…I'd need the records…" She glanced around in a self-conscious manner.

"Leave the medical records," I told her. "You've got knowledge from your degree, and you've got the markings on the body. That's all you need to begin."

"Ok…" Molly laughed again. She remains to this day the only person I have ever known, besides myself, to laugh in a morgue. I watched her eyes dart back and forth rapidly. All novices do this – they feel trapped and think, first, that the faster they move their eyes the more likely they will be to observe something; and secondly that observing something will somehow release them from their perceived trap. In actual fact neither is true, as they are not in a trap, and observation with speed comes only with extensive experience.

"Well…" she said after a few seconds, "There's dried sweat around the neck area…"

"Excellent," I said.

"And…there's traces of vomit on the mouth.

"And dried feces around the anus," I added. She cringed. "If you're going to work here you can't be precious about anything," I told her. "So what are your conclusions?"

"Sweat either means a fever or a very hot room…"

"You're good…" I whispered to myself, and Molly flushed dark red and stuttered her thanks. I realised I was still gripping her hand – obviously I had forgotten she wasn't a corpse. I disengaged and let Soul lick the salt away.

"You can see the sweat has dried in a curve over the upper chest," I said. "That shows the neckline of the clothing. Now, the hospital gowns have a neckline that shape, and the child size would cover that area. So it's reasonably to assume the sweat was produced at the hospital, indicating a fever rather than a hot room at home. A fever is the body's response to a pathogen. The lips aren't cracked and the eyes aren't sunken so there hasn't been dehydration. The muscles in the arms and legs are also firm and full, so it's unlikely this has gone on for days – it flared up quickly. The nails are also strong, so this person was in good health in the days running up to her death. Add to that the feces and the vomiting, and my diagnosis would be…food poisoning. Check the records."

She did so. "Yes!" she exclaimed. She had forgotten her revulsion in her intrigue with my methods, but now it returned. "I was sent up here to fetch a specimen," she said. I gestured in a 'Be my guest' manner. She hesitated. "I don't want to touch one," she said.

"Well you'll have to," I said, "But some are easier for beginners than others."

I crossed the room to a slab on which a man who looked to be in his seventies lay.

"This one's alright," I called over to her. She joined me. "No visible bodily fluids except saliva."

"And the crusted snot around his nostrils," Molly shuddered.

"Oh," I peered deep into the man's nose. There was white stuff there, but it most definitely wasn't normal mucus. I stuck a finger up, much to Molly's disgust, and scooped some out. It was fine and powdery – not the crumbly texture that one would expect dried mucus to be. I sniffed it. Then I peered at the skin surrounding the mouth, wrists and ankles.

"Molly," I said, "I might need your help. Tell your tutor the lesson's postponed. I think we might have stumbled upon a murder investigation."

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_Sent today at 18:59:09 GMT (BST)_


	97. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 2

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: The Flat

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Having obtained the records of the dead man – Richard Mavis of Kensal Road, and having learned that he had a wife, I followed Molly out to her car. Soul tried to nose her way into the driver's seat; but I picked her up around the middle, Molly opened the door and I stuffed her into the back, where she became highly interested in the rug laid out across the seat.

"She can probably smell Benny," Molly said. "My Scottish Fold. He was hit last week…I took him to the vet, but…" she blinked and sniffed. I stared ahead until she had returned to normal.

"So," I said "I was right. The medical records put his death down to sudden cardiac arrest, and state that he suffered from Parkinson's disease and mild atopic eczema. Perhaps that explains why nobody paid any notice to the marks on his face, wrists and legs. They thought they were just shaving cuts, or eczema patches."

"And what do you think?" Molly turned to look at me.

I gestured to her to watch the road as we approached a red light. "I think he was suffocated."

"Why?"

"Because when I looked with my lens there were little white fibres around his mouth that I could only see on the skin patches with abrasions. They'd be easy to mistake for facial hairs, but I found them on his wrists and legs too. Fibres left behind and abrasions on the skin indicate tape ripped off very fast. Gaffa tape, to be specific."

"The kind used in theatres!" Molly said. "I used to tech theatre shows at university," she added, by way of an explanation.

"Exactly. So imagine the scene…not too vividly…" I added quickly, as another red light came into view. "Richard Mavis is bound up, to a chair in all probability, since his ankles and wrists weren't bound together – each has its own distinct ring of abrasions and that doesn't happen when you bind limbs together, I've tried it myself. So he's tied to a chair with gaffa tape, and he has another piece of tape over his mouth. Now we come to the linseed putty."

"The stuff in his nose?"

"Yes…gaffa tape over his mouth, and linseed up his nose, and left to suffocate."

"Oh my God…the poor man," Molly whispered.

"Yeah, probably wasn't the absolute best way to go."

We drove in silence for a bit, before coming upon some high rise flats. Molly pulled up at the curb of one of these. I let Soul out, pressed the buzzer of the flat and we craned our necks up to see the top floor windows – the level on which the flat in question was situated. "It's odd how the buildings look like they're falling towards you, isn't it?" Molly said.

"Optical illusion," I replied. We waited for approximately thirty seconds and after no reply I pressed again, for longer.

"Perhaps she's out? We could come back another time."

"No," I said, and pointed far up the wall of the building to a window that was opened outwards, with a white net curtain flapping in the breeze. "Going by the order of buttons here, that window belongs to Mavis's flat. People don't just leave windows open. She'll be in."

But a third buzz elicited no response. Molly pressed the button beside it and after several seconds a woman's voice crackled over the intercom. "Hello?"

"Um…hi," said Molly. "We're…er…well, a man was murdered in the flat next to you. Is his wife in?"

I suddenly found myself fighting to suppress laughter. I caught Molly's eye and thought I detected something of a twinkle as well at the surreal nature of our visit. There was a very long pause. "Good God, yes, that…" said the woman at last. "Um…well…just a minute…"

There was a click and we all filed in.

"Is there a lift?" Molly asked. I pointed to a sign on the staircase. "Lift out of order, please use stairs."

It wasn't a long climb, but by the time we reached the top we both had stitches, and Soul's tongue was hanging limply out one side of her mouth as she panted. The woman was waiting for us at the top of the stairs. She had fluffy blonde hair pulled back into a fluffy scrunchie, a fluffy blue jumper with compost stains, and was wearing fluffy slippers. "You're not the police!" the fluffy woman exclaimed when she saw us.

"DI Lestrade," I said, holding up the card (I think it was the first one I ever nicked from him, incidentally).

"But…" started Molly, but I silenced her with a sideways glance.

"Well…" for a moment even the woman's speech was fluffed, and she went pink. "If there's anything I can do to help – "

"Where's his wife?"

"I'm sorry, she's being treated for shock at St. Charles. She had a breakdown when it happened."

"Oh, I'm sorry…" Molly looked shocked. Cadavers she could cope with, but nervous breakdowns threw her.

"So that window's been open since she left?" I asked.

"It's been open since she found him," the fluffy woman replied, and she gestured for us to follow her down a corridor into her flat. We talked as she went.

"And there was no investigation?"

"No. Well, it was examined very briefly as a precaution and nothing unusual was found. He was slumped on the floor in front of the sofa, poor man. I knew him. He was nice. Stubborn, but nice."

"Can we get in the flat?"

"Yes, I have a spare key. They kept a goldfish. A gigantic warty thing called Horatio. I used to feed it when they were away."

By now we were in her kitchen. It was very basic – almost as basic as my own in fact. The once-pink wallpaper was peeling. It struck me as odd that such a woman would live in a flat like this out of choice. "I'm sorry, I can't offer you anything," she said, bending her head as she went over to the kitchen cupboards. "It's just, I get my benefits next week and I need the leftovers to tide me over. I'm usually alright, provided I don't have second helps or snacks."

"What's your name?" Molly asked.

"Alison."

There was silence while Alison dug the key out from the gap between the top of the cupboards and the ceiling, and Molly watched her with wide eyes. I could tell it was taking self-restraint on her part not to ask any more questions. I was curious myself. She had a cat flap in the door between the kitchen and the rest of her flat, but Soul paid no interest to it and there was no cat litter in the kitchen area, and no food or water bowls either. All the furniture in her flat was weathered and worn. The chair I sat on was wobbly and the reed matting which formed the seat was becoming frayed. On top of the fridge there was a framed photograph of a young man. The photo was faded, but it was taken with a digital camera and therefore unlikely to be an old family portrait. It could have been a cousin or brother though. The top of the fridge was thick with dust, but the photograph was clean and bright. She cared about this man more than her worldly possessions, and as there were no other photographs, it was reasonable to assume she cared about him more than any other person in her life.

"Ah!" Alison picked up the keys and handed them over to me, allowing me to glimpse her wedding ring, which again was shiningly clean.

"Thank you," I said, and I tore myself away and unlocked the Mavis flat.

The smell of damp wafted into our faces as we opened the door. Only the living room door was open, and as we approached the smell of damp got stronger and stronger. Checking on my phone, I found that the day the death was reported, it had been raining all night, and a thin rain had still been falling when the wife was taken away. It had blown in through the open window. On closer examination the white net curtain was peppered with the beginnings of mould. Only Soul seemed unaffected by the smell, and she trotted around the flat, inspecting the bookshelf, the phone and the coffee table. When she reached the floor in front of the sofa, she sniffed for far longer, and then came over and nudged me on the leg. "Yes, we know," I said to her.

"You should have asked her about herself. She looked like she needed help," said Molly, reproachfully.

"None of my business."

"You're a _detective_!"

"And nobody asked me to detect."

"Nobody asked you to detect this case either!"

"Well murder's different to misfortune."

"Do you think it _was _her then?" Molly asked, referring to Mrs Mavis, and the murder.

"Well if it was, I highly doubt she acted alone," I replied. "Not only is she elderly, but his body was in good condition. It would have taken someone strong to either knock him out or pin him down."

"She could have spiked his drink."

"Possibly, but that would have produced symptoms of some kind. Muscle rigidity, discolouration, some kind of physical reaction such as vomiting."

"It could have been cyanide. It acts really fast and then breaks down."

"But then there'd be no reason for her to then tie him up with gaffa tape and suffocate him, would there?"

"Oh. So there wouldn't."

"So…" I crossed the room to the doorway. "An intruder must have come in and then come out again. And I've yet to investigate a crime perpetrated by a person who can fly. So there should be marks of some kind. Ah!"

"What?"

I pointed out some faded ridges on the carpet. "These are boots," I said. "They grip well since the ridge is clear, they distribute the weight fairly evenly – the print is equally visible in all parts, they're sturdy as there don't seem to be any irregularities in the soles, and yet they, and their occupant, are very light, as the indent isn't deep despite the clunkiness of the boots." I swept a glance over the indents with my lens. "And they're new. There's no mud, and not even any trace of dried mud."

"Does that help?"

"It helps in that we can describe the boots to somebody. That's important because – and please keep this private – I don't recognise the make. They must be specialist boots. Now the problem is, which specialist? And where are the exit prints?" I was referring to the fact that normally when an intruder breaks in and leaves, you can clearly see their exit, be it through a window or footprints overlaying the first set back through the door. There were no more footprints, and the only other exit from the room was the window, which was open. I inspected it, and did indeed find fingerprints on the catch, but so many of them, and so smudged, that they weren't much help from a forensic point of view. What I did see, however, was that directly on the ground underneath the window, there was a small strip of lawn, with shrubs growing against the wall. I called Molly over.

"Look at that," I said, pointing down.

"What?"

"Anyone climbing down the wall would land in the shrubs and flatten a patch of them. And those shrubs are perfectly intact."

I put my fingertips together and paced up and down. Soul followed, looking up at me with unhappy ears. She thought I was distressed – I pace around my flat when I'm cross or upset. But I wasn't – I was merely curious, and more than a little confused. Finally I voiced my thoughts to Molly. "Can you see _any _other way a person could get out of this room, besides the door or the window?"

She swept a glance around the room. "Nope," she said at last.

"Neither can I. But this person _must _have exited the building…" I paused. "Unless he's still here…" Molly's eyes widened. I sprang across the room and slammed the door shut. Then I took Molly by the shoulders and manoeuvred her to stand with her back to the door, before looking around the room for hiding places. There were none that I could see. Soul certainly seemed relaxed. She was stretched out on the floor, quietly nibbling one of the chair legs. "Ok," I said to Molly, in a low voice. "We're going to have to search the rest of the flat – "

" – Sherlock…"

"What?"

"I…I'm scared." She was pale, shivering all over and when I touched her arm she was rigid.

"Alright," I said. "You sit in this chair" – I indicated a varnished wooden chair sitting not far from the door. She sat in it and gripped the sides with her hands. "I'll look, and if I need you I'll shout. Ok?" And Soul can keep you company. Ok, Soul?" Soul's head jerked up, and she padded across the room. "Guard Molly," I told her. Then I mouthed 'Shh' at Molly, and set off to have a look around.

The flat was hauntingly tidy. The light was still on in the kitchen, and a tap dripped. Fridge magnets spelled the words "keep me filled". I tiptoed around, inspecting the linoleum for footsteps, and the cupboards for intruders, but neither could be found. Nothing was out of the ordinary in the bathroom either. The one hiding place in the bedroom was the wardrobe, but the only things inside were clothes, which hung boringly from their metal and wood hangers.

"Sherlock!" Molly was shouting, but it wasn't a panicked shout.

"What?" I shouted back, now convinced that we were the only occupants of the flat.

"I've found something!"

I hurried back through. Molly was sitting where I had left her. She pointed at the chair leg. "Actually, I suppose Soul really found it, but look!" I knelt down and peered at where she was pointing, and saw the gaffa tape fibres clinging to the chair. Soul licked my cheek as I was looking. "Someone dragged the body over to make it look accidental," said Molly.

"A reasonable conclusion," I said. "Someone strong too – stronger than Mrs Mavis." I stood up. "Come on then," I told her. "Nothing else here. Let's go to St. Charles."

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_Sent today at 00:00:02 GMT (BST)_


	98. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 3

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: St. Charles Mental Health Centre

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Molly and I arrived at the St. Charles mental health centre at approximately one O'clock in the afternoon. It was old-fashioned in its structuring: There was a visitor's reception and waiting room, and from here visitors were escorted to the appropriate room by a member of staff. Soul, Molly and I had come in fully prepared to deduce our way to Mrs Mavis. At least, we thought we had, until we entered the visiting area, and the first thing that struck me was its complete lack of deductability. There is a similar problem in hospitals, but since the visitors are not kept as separate in most hospitals as they seemed to be here, there are tell-tale signs: A medicine trolley with the potential for following, the talk of nurses on rounds which can yield valuable details, or the smell of a certain type of food ordered by the patient in question. In hospital, it's well worth visiting at lunch time if at all possible, and finding out beforehand what food your patient likes.

Here the walls were spotlessly clean and cream-coloured. The carpet smelled faintly of disinfectant, and I could hear no background sounds. There were several large, plastic-covered blue sofas and a coffee table, on which sat three National Geographic magazines, and a vase full of false peonies. There was nobody at the reception. Sunlight cast a beam onto the carpet in front of the coffee table.

The fur on Soul's neck bristled. "She can probably hear things we can't," said Molly, with a nervous laugh. We decided to walk down the corridors and see if we could either deduce our way from there, or find some signposts, or another clinic in which we could make our presence known, or at least get our bearings. Molly pushed open the swing-door, on which was attached a sign that read: "Visitors must be accompanied by staff beyond this point." The three of us walked down a long corridor. A wide window was set in one wall, through which we could see a fountain, and some garden benches. There were patients sitting or walking around, enjoying the day. Some of them were eating lunch from trays. All wore white trousers and blue tops with "St Charles mental health centre" written on them.

"We could ask them," Molly suggested.

"Good idea," I said.

Soul seemed to relax once we were out of the confines of the building. She held her nose high and drew in the scents of juniper bush, cottage pie and traffic.

"Oh, look, it's a little doggy! I love dogs!" A woman patient came running over to us, dropped to her knees and started rolling on the floor with Soul. Soul responded by covering her face with licks, and play-fighting her. John, when I met your sister that time in the police station, she reminded me a lot of that woman. Other patients approached to talk to Soul too.

"Do you know a Mr Mavis?" I asked an autistic man of fifty-four years old.

He turned his head away from me, rocked back and forth and pushed his fingers through Soul's fur as Soul rolled on the floor with the woman who reminded me of your sister. "I know everyone in and out of here." He told me. "Yesterday, Adam went out and June came in. The day before Ian and Joe came in and Mary came out. Today James went out. The day before yesterday Olive went out. And Sophie came in. And the day before that Ellie came in because Richard was dead."

"Is that Ellie Mavis?" Molly asked, perhaps a little too eagerly. But it was a valid assumption, given the time that had elapsed, and the man didn't seem to notice her eagerness.

"Yes. Mavis. Ellie Mavis." The man suddenly looked up, his eyes widened and he smiled. "Water lilies," he said. "Water lilies. Lilies. Lilies."

"Do you know where her room is?" Molly asked. But the man had lapsed into imagination, and ignored her. When she tried to touch him he hit out, and Molly ducked away, looking shaken.

"Don't worry, you didn't do anything wrong," I told her.

Then I saw a member of staff approaching. She was religious, as I deduced from the cross around her neck, and used to authority to the point of abandoning empathy, judging by the way she waved patients aside and pulled Soul up by her collar. Soul growled.

"Is this your dog?" she asked.

"Yes." I said.

"No animals are allowed within the building or its grounds, due to the risk of infection."

"She's a service dog," I told her. "Some of your patients must use them."

"A service dog?" Her manner became slightly more amiable. "What's wrong with you?"

"I have an over-protective family."

The nurse sighed. "Get it out," she said in a resigned voice.

"We're here to visit a patient," Molly said quickly, as the staff member started to leave.

"Well you can wait in the visiting area, once you've put that dog out."

It's strange how, when people treat a pet as disgusting and disruptive, it is the owner who often feels personally insulted. It does depend on the owner though, and their motivation for obtaining a pet, and their general views on pet-raising. Pets can tell a person a great deal about the owner. A happy dog will not come from a sad household, for example. And even if there is the appearance of a peaceful, close-knit family unit, if a dog is aggressive, that aggression has to come from somewhere, or someone. One project I want to embark on at some stage is the writing of a book about the importance of dogs and their temperaments in the world of detection. Lestrade would scoff at the idea, but then he was always slightly too enamoured with the idea that forensics can solve everything, every time. The upshot was that I felt simultaneously humiliated following the incident with the staff member and Soul, and annoyed at myself for feeling humiliated. Molly picked up on this, and she linked her arm through mine. "It's ok," she said. "I know you didn't mean any harm. And Soul won't run off."

I withdrew my arm without looking at her. My ears went red, partly because she had been able to read my body language so easily, which I wasn't accustomed to, and partly because her sympathetic attitude enhanced my feelings of annoyance at myself for reacting to something so trivial in a manner which elicited such a response.

Once I had tethered Soul up and assured her that we would return when we had spoken to Mrs Mavis, Molly and I went to the waiting room area. Molly sat down and looked at one of the National Geographic magazines, while I paced around, waiting for a member of staff to come along. In fact, so mundane was the wait, and so long, that my brain began to assume that this was not a case at all, and sent hunger signals to my stomach, so I distracted myself by observing window catches. Presently a different member of staff came in through the front door, having finished a meal of spaghetti bolognaise at the Italian restaurant two streets away from the centre, and following that, slightly overslept on the sofa in the staff room area, judging by the dried sleep which still clung to her eyes, and the wisps of hair which had broken free of her hairclip – which had been pushed flat and squint by the pressure her head had applied to it upon lying down.

"Sorry for the wait," she said. "Who are you here to see?"

"Ellie Mavis."

"I'll send someone to take you up."

The third member of staff we encountered was another woman, who was fat, whose forehead carried only smile and empathy lines, and whose muscles were relatively undeveloped. From this I deduced that she had a 'special way' with people. She never needed to use force, or never chose to, and she rarely became angry or annoyed with anyone.

"Pleased to meet you," she said, and shook both our hands warmly. "Follow me, and we'll go up and see Ellie."

"Thanks," said Molly, "We want to talk to her about her husband."

"Oh now," the member of staff said as we entered a lift. "I'm afraid we're asking all visitors to Ellie not to mention her husband."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Because it traumatises her."

"Alright," I told her. "I won't talk about her husband."

"Good good. Glad we can both agree on that!"

After two corridors decorated with copies of farmland paintings, we arrived at Ellie's room.

"Knock knock!" said the member of staff, and we all went in one after another, led by her.

Ellie Mavis sat at a work desk, writing in what looked like an exercise book, with a silver fountain pen. I sat down beside her. She was thin and had long, grey hair, dark eyelashes, a roman nose, and was wearing the centre's uniform. Molly sat on the bed. As gently as I could, I took the pen from her and examined it. I could tell it was a recent present, because although it was inscribed with her name on it, the nib had not yet worn down in a fashion that corresponded to the slant of her writing. I turned it over and saw "Welder 073" inscribed in tiny letters on the clip. "Sterling silver," I said, and I whistled soundlessly. "Who gave you this?"

"My husband." She certainly didn't speak as one severely traumatised.

The member of staff had been standing in the corner of the room observing. Now she drew breath.

"I didn't talk about it," I said quickly, before she could speak. She was motionless for a couple of seconds, and then she relaxed. The room was silent.

"It's beautiful," I said. "It looks expensive."

"Well he was a very generous man," Ellie told me.

"Nobody's ever given me a gift like that before," I said, hoping to draw more information out of her.

"I know. I was lucky to have a husband who worked so hard for so long to make life good for me and our son. And who stayed faithful to me. Not like men now. Do you believe in divorce?"

I took a quick trip into my mind palace for reference and inspiration. "I don't think about it enough to have a view," I said in the end. "It doesn't apply to me. I'm married to the job."

"And what is your job?"

"I'm a consulting detective."

Again the member of staff shifted in the corner. "Still haven't talked about it," I reminded her.

"You're treading a thin line," the member of staff replied.

"That must bring you into contact with a lot of criminals."

"Yes, I've built up a bit of a directory."

"Have you heard of a Martin Mavis?"

"No."

"Oh. Shame. He murdered my husband."

At that, the member of staff stepped in. "Now, that's not something you want to dwell on, Mrs Mavis. Not at this time. I'm sure this gentleman has other leads to go on." She turned to Molly and me. "Let's go," she said, and I understood at that point why this member of staff never needed to use force or hostility to get her way. I quickly whispered: "You have the right to discharge yourself at any time, you know," to Ellie Mavis, and stood up.

"I didn't talk about the husband," I said, as we went down in the lift.

"No," the member of staff was tight lipped, which I knew from my previous observations was unusual for her. "No, you made an excellent job of drawing her into a conversation about it without referring to him. When I asked you not to mention the husband, I meant stay away from the subject altogether – both of you."

"Then I apologise," I said, "But if this son did kill her husband, who else can you expect to give us the information we need? The police are idiots. If it wasn't for me the majority of British crimes would go unsolved."

"Well in that case, I'll doubtless hear more about you in the media as your career progresses. You and your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," I said. "Anyway, Mrs Mavis didn't seem to be displaying the typical signs of shock to me."

"No, she's normal in every way, except that she keeps repeatedly stating that the son did it. That she saw his face. That he spoke to her. That's why I stopped your visit."

"You're keeping her here and restricting her conversation topics because she's refusing to concede to a common view that doesn't match your own?"

"No, we're keeping her here because according to our records, she attended the funeral of her son three years ago."

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_Sent today at 03:11:28 GMT (BST)_


	99. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 4

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Martin Mavis

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"So…two mysteries," I said, as the three of us drove in the direction of Montague Street.

"Two?"

"Yes. How does a dead son show up and kill Mrs Mavis's husband…"

"…Well it must have either not been her son, or he's not dead…"

"Yes, Molly, thank you for stating the obvious," I snapped. She looked chagrined. "And the second mystery: How does somebody get away without leaving footmarks or climb marks?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Molly asked, with some bitterness in her voice.

"Just thinking out loud." I said, and then added, "Although, any suggestions would be much encouraged. Intelligent ones, that is."

"I could put you out the car, you know," she told me.

"And I'd just get a taxi. It makes no difference to me."

"Fine." She indicated and pulled over to the kerb, bumping it with her front wheel in her annoyance.

"You hit the kerb." I said.

"Yes, Sherlock, thank you for stating the obvious," she snapped. She waited for me to get out, but made no attempt to eject me. I made no attempt to leave. We sat in silence for a bit. Then she started up the car again and carried on driving.

-/-/-

I had retained the key that Alison had given me, so that evening Soul and I went round to Mrs Mavis's flat again. What I didn't have, and very much needed, were clues as to the motive of the murder, and a picture of Martin Mavis. I let myself in, and once again was struck by the smell of mould. Although I had ascertained that the light bulbs still worked, I carried a torch with me, as I didn't want the lighted windows to attract attention from the neighbours. "Stay quiet," I whispered to Soul. She padded across the living room carpet beside me, and we sat down next to a small chest of drawers. I hoped they would contain some kind of work-related or financial documents, with which I could ascertain Mr Mavis's bank balance and status in his job. To my disappointment, they contained only folded sheets and pillow cases, hot water bottle covers, and a waterproof mattress protector. I took each of these out one by one, in case the couple had been paranoid and had used these to disguise documents. This was not the case though. Soul snuffled the pillow cases, and drew back sharply with a quiet sneeze as she encountered a mothball.

There was no study in the flat, but there was a desk with a desk light in the bedroom. This desk had three drawers set in one side, and I pulled the first one open and peered in. It was stacked with writing paper, covered in Ellie Mavis's small, tight, slightly inclined handwriting. I scooped up a handful of pages and leafed through them. There were enough to fill a large novel. The most recent writings were on the same pastel-purple, flower-edged paper that Ellie had brought to the mental health centre, and written by the same pen too. All were dated the first of each month, and all began with "My dear son".

"_My Dear Son,_

_Not much has changed here. I've been going to creative writing classes, and I'm afraid my offerings leave an awful lot to be desired! For some reason I have never found any sort of writing as easy as my letters to you, my darling. When I write to you, the words just pour out of the pen – I seem to have no control over them. _

_Your Daddy has been trying to get hold of some garden seed trays…"_

Most of the more recent letters continued in this mundane vane, which was of no use or interest to me. But what did interest me was that the letters backdated six years – not three. So Ellie Mavis had been writing to Martin long before his alleged date of death. I unfolded one of these older letters.

"_My Dear Son,_

_I sometimes wonder why I still write these to you. Even if I did know your address, I'm not sure I would know how to make contact with you in a way that would be good for both of us. My selfish self just wants you back at all costs. But I know that if you've built a good, honest life for yourself that would be disrupted by me, then perhaps it's best for everyone if I stay out of it. _

_I do feel guilty though. I never imagined you would take what I said as seriously and literally as you did. And yes, I feel angry. I think I deserve another chance, and to at least be able to picture you as you are now. And I feel angry at myself for giving you an ultimatum in the first place, and for losing my temper. _

_But Martin, please get in touch with your Daddy. You know how much he loved you, and he's so much more level headed than I am. He didn't do anything to deserve to be cut off as well. _

_You and me. We were so alike in the end, the two of us – both hot heads, both unwilling to admit to our mistakes, and both idealists. And like-minds often clash, and do things they regret. Maybe next year I'll hear from you. _

_I love you, son, and I always will._

_Your mother."_

Whilst overly sentimental, this letter did give me valuable clues. For example, Ellie Mavis passionately believed that her son was a good man who was misguided, or had misled himself. Therefore why would her subconscious create a hallucination of her dead son as the murderer? The fact that Martin had been out of touch for so long was certainly something that could be significant - his appearence and temperament could have changed in the time since she had last seen him. I couldn't see any photographs around the flat, which was strange for two loving parents. It could be that they were too painful for the mother and father to look at, especially now that Martin was dead. In which case the pictures were likely to be very specifically organised and categorised, and placed somewhere extremely safe, but out of sight. Again, the most likely locations were the bedroom and the sitting room.

I checked the rest of the drawers, but they simply contained writing pads and stationary. I checked through the chest of drawers in the bedroom, but found nothing out of the ordinary. The bedside cabinet was empty as well, and I checked the wardrobe too. The living room also yielded no results, and the bathroom and kitchen were also perfectly normal, as I suspected. I ended up standing in the middle of the living room again. I looked at Soul. "Any ideas?" I asked. She cocked her head and looked up at me. "Come on," I said, "I need to think."

I sat on the bed, and went to my mind palace. I had checked all cupboards and drawers. I had checked on surfaces, and in any boxes. I _hadn't_ checked down the sides of furniture – sometimes disorganised people wedge their books or files in such places, and it's intended to be temporary, but becomes a permanent home for them. This was plausible in the Mavis's case, because if the photos had suddenly become very painful to look at then it was possible they were hoarded away quite quickly initially. So I thrust an arm into the gap between the wardrobe and the wall. Soul thought this was an excellent idea, and followed suit by pushing her nose into the space between the bedside table and the wall.

I got down on my stomach and pushed a hand under the bed. And my fingertips brushed what felt like the spine of a large file. I strained to reach, but the more I pushed, the more it slid sideways out of my reach. I grasped the side of the bed and attempted to heave it forward. But the bed had been in the same position for so long that it had sunk down into the carpet – which had hardened somewhat around the legs. I knew that if I strained any harder my back would be put out, and then I would be no use for anything. So I racked my brains, trying to remember having seen anything in the flat that was long enough and thin enough to reach under the bed and poke the file out with. There had been no walking sticks, and the windows were all low enough not to need a stick. Even in the cleaning section of the kitchen, I hadn't seen any brooms or mops, possibly indicating that the couple had employed an outside cleaning company, or received home help. Finally, I had an idea.

"Soul," I said, and her head snapped up. "Fetch it. Under the bed."

She held my gaze momentarily as she processed what I had said, and then she pushed her nose under the bed. Of course it was too short and too broad. "With your paw."

It took some experimenting for her to work out what I was telling her, but eventually she slid a paw under and, like a cat, batted around under the bed. It helped that she had claws, which allowed her to gain a better grip. "Good, Soul, keep going," I said, and after a good few minutes, Soul had managed to extract a corner, which I grasped between my finger and thumb, and pulled out.

To my delight, I was holding a dust-covered photo album. I turned over the pages – baby photos of Martin. The photos were in chronological order. Outdated, but still useful in some ways. The whorl of the ear and the iris of the eye change very little over time, and it was informative to see Martin's face developing and lengthening as the pages went on. It meant that I could build up a mental picture of what he would most likely look like now. The last photo of Martin was taken on May 2nd, 2002, which corresponded, if I had inferred the chronology of events correctly, to the year in which Martin had broken contact with the family. I extracted the photo and pocketed it.

My train of thought was suddenly broken by a barrage of barks by Soul. "Shhh!" I hissed at her, but although she stopped, she continued to growl loudly, her fur frizzy with aggression. At that moment I heard the front door bang open and a shout of "Police!"

"It's ok, Soul," I whispered to her, and in hindsight I realise just how naïve I was in my deductions, "They're friends – we're on the same side."

I stood up to greet the policeman who now framed the doorway of the bedroom. "Evening," I said, and held out my hand. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

The policeman's face showed no hint of recognition. "Call yourself anything you like, mate, it makes no difference." The policeman swung me around and clapped handcuffs on my wrists before I had time to reflect on the mess of sheets and open drawers and cupboards I had left in the living room, the unlocked door, and the writing paper and photo album on the bedroom floor.

"I'm arresting you on a charge of breaking and entering, and on suspicion of the murder of Mr Richard Mavis," he said, seemingly with relish.

I blinked. "How do you know he was murdered?" As soon as I said it I realised I had made the situation far worse for myself. My only saving grace now was that I had not directly admitted to the murder.

The policeman was silent for several seconds, and a gleam came into his eye. Then he collected himself and continued with the arrest: ""You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not now mention something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence." He started to lead me away. "Your dog. Does it bite?"

"She. No."

"Good. We'll take it. Ron!" A second policeman entered the room. "Bring his dog, would you? He says it doesn't bite but watch yourself anyway."

"It'd better not…" said Ron, and grabbed Soul by the collar.

"Gentle, Soul", I warned her. I could see it took effort for her to restrain her instincts, but she obeyed.

"Come on then," said the first policeman. "Let's get him in and tell 'em we've got him!"

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_Sent today at 02:21:03 GMT (BST_


	100. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 5

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Police Station

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We reached the police car in the road, with its blue flashing lights and fluorescent stripe across the middle. The back door was opened, and the policeman who led me down the stairs put a hand on the top of my head and pushed down hard, so that I was forced to duck in through the door. The back of the police car had tinted windows, and my knees dug into the back of the chair. There were child-locks on the door. Soul was loaded into the boot, which was separated by a mesh wire. I wanted to put my finger through one of the squares to touch her nose, but there wasn't enough room to turn around and reach, and the policeman was sitting beside me. The windows were tinted, and it was raining hard, so I could see very little. I strained to listen, but the sound of the rain drowned all but the loudest traffic. The backs of the policemen's' heads were indistinct, so I could deduce little from them. With nothing to keep me occupied (my pockets having been emptied prior to getting in), I began to feel a tightness in my chest, and a pain in my stomach. I alleviated this by drumming my fingers and reciting all the different types of tread mark I could remember in my head.

When we arrived at the police station I was deposited in a cell for processing, and Soul was led away somewhere in another direction. This cell contained only a bench, and had a door with a small, mesh-bar window. I don't know what happened to Soul during that time. I felt in my pockets to see if anything had accidentally been left behind when they made me turn them out. They hadn't. I felt thankful that I hadn't pickpocketed Lestrade in the days leading up to the case: Somehow I had a feeling that wouldn't reflect favourably upon me. But they had only searched my pockets. The inside of my coat has a rip in the lining – not big enough or discreet enough to disguise anything 3D, but an A6 photograph could go unnoticed. And it had. I smiled as I felt it still in there. I didn't dare pull it out, in case the CCTV cameras in the cell picked up on it. I couldn't afford that: It was my one lead and possibly my 'get out of jail free' card.

I had a look at the lock. For me it would have been easy to manipulate it and break free, but there was no point in trying to escape. I knew that if I could be patient the police were likely to be in a far more reasonable state of mind than they would be if I simply broke out. That was important from the point of view of the case. So I examined my nails for any irregularities, and removed these by nibbling them. Because my watch had been taken, I didn't have any indication of the time I spent in there, but I would estimate approximately seven hours, judging by the sliver of changing light I saw through the door of my cell.

Eventually, a police officer unlocked my cell and led me along to a room, which I deduced must be for questioning.

"Lestrade? You wanted to conduct the interview?" I glanced around, and held back a smile.

"Yes, leave him to me," Lestrade said. "Come on then," and I entered the room. It contained a digital recorder, a table and two chairs opposite each other. "He won't be any trouble," Lestrade said, "At least, not more than usual. Which doesn't rule out much, now I come to think of it..." The police officer who had come to get me nodded. "Any problems, just let me know."

Lestrade sat down, but made no attempt to set the tape recorder to record. "Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"The one and only," I replied.

"Best not make that kind of wisecrack in here."

"You've moved up to London."

"Moved _back _to London," Lestrade replied. "So this is where you operate when you're not on holiday?"

"1 Montague Street," I said. "Do you know what they've done with Soul?"

"She's got her own area for now, don't worry about her."

"Can I see her?"

"Hopefully in a minute you can _collect _her," Lestrade smiled, and then assumed a very serious expression. "Sherlock, I know you mean well but you must remember you're still just a citizen. You can't go breaking into other peoples' houses without some kind of warrant and expect to be let off."

"Oh."

"What did you expect?"

"I thought everyone knew my name."

"Get over yourself!" Lestrade leaned forward. "Luckily for you there was another attack last night. That's what raised the alarm bells about the Mavis death."

I raised my eyebrows. Lestrade pulled out a copy of the Daily Record. "The Record got hold of it almost as soon as it happened. Not a bad account, considering." He handed the newspaper to me.

"_Saved By the Bell! OAP Survives Attempted Murder Because of Indian Takeaway…_

"_At approximately 11:00pm last night, a brutal attack took place in Kensington. The victim, Mrs Lilian Williamson, a 79 year old pensioner, lives alone in her one-bedroomed flat. _

_She described to us how she had just placed an order for an Indian takeaway, when she heard a buzz at the door. She opened it without suspecting a thing. The intruder subsequently knocked on the door of her flat, and forced his way into her living room._

"_I was bound to a chair with thick black tape and gagged. The attacker kept his face shadowed, but I could tell it was a tall man, probably in his mid-thirties, wearing a rucksack" she says. "I caught a glimpse of a very long, roman nose, and thin, bony cheekbones. He said he would put putty in my nostrils if I didn't behave, and that it would be a long, slow, painful death."_

"_Then the buzzer rang. I had ordered an Indian takeaway, and the delivery man was at the door." _

_How did the attacker respond to this? Mrs Williamson seems incredulous herself, but is very clear on what he did: "He jumped out the window", she tells our reporter. "My flat is fifteen storeys up! After that I screamed and screamed, and eventually a neighbour heard me, broke down the door and called the police. They checked the ground beneath my window, but there was no body and no marks."_

_"Eerily, new evidence has come to light of a death one week ago, that seems to mirror the method and circumstances of this attack. What was assumed to be an age-related death was in fact a murder, committed using uncannily similar methods, and in strikingly parallel circumstances. _

_"Mr Richard Mavis, of Kensal Road, was found dead in his home. Our source, who wishes to remain anonymous, informs us that traces of putty were found in Mr Mavis's nostrils, and abrasion marks thought to be the result of binding with gaffa tape, could be seen on his wrists, ankles and mouth. The police have arrested a young man who is currently being held in custody in conjunction with both attacks. The case is being forwarded to Detective Inspector Lestrade – a highly skilled and experienced member of Scotland Yard."_

"You'd better thank your lucky stars," Lestrade said, as I handed the paper back. "This happened when you were busy breaking into the Kensal flat. It provides you with an alibi. Not an ideal one, admittedly, but at least you've got one."

"Have you told the press it wasn't me yet?"

"No. We're planning on making a statement this afternoon."

"Don't," I told him. "You'll make it much easier for yourselves if you leave things as they are. If the real attacker thinks he's got away with it, he'll think he's free to carry on. The more times he strikes, the more data we receive."

"Or he'll realise he can't do it again without giving himself away," Lestrade said.

"No, he's not that kind of attacker. If he wanted to get away with it he would have worn a mask." I put my fingertips together and thought. "We've got to see the woman in the paper. She could be a vital piece of evidence."

"Sherlock, I know what you mean when you say that...but human lives are not just pieces of a puzzle."

"Well how are _you_ going to solve the case?" Lestrade dropped his gaze. "What I say and how I say it aren't important. I'm right, and that's all there is to it. You don't have enough data to solve the case as it is. This woman will give us more clues. The newspaper article makes it obvious that we can't solve the case with the data we have, so another attack is going to happen sooner or later, and the sooner it does the sooner we can devise a plan catch the attacker in the act. Not that this means we have _no _data to work with. We'll go to the Mrs Williamson's flat this afternoon."

"We? Where do you come into it?"

"I know Mr and Mrs Mavis's flat better than anyone else, besides them," I said. "Plus, I have this:"

I pulled the photograph out from the lining of my coat. Lestrade at least had enough wits not to confiscate it. "You're going to need me to help you connect up the data," I said. "No offence, but it's not your strong point. I'll need to speak to the anonymous source at some point today. And I'll need my colleague to come with us. According to you she's being held in custody somewhere in this police station."

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_Sent today at 06:35:12 GMT (BST)_


	101. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 6

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Flats, Palaces and Hospitals

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"Come with me in the police car," Lestrade said.

"No, I'll take a cab," I said. The previous night's experiences had not been pleasant, and were still fresh in my mind.

"What's the point of that?"

"Well I'm not with the police," I said. "C'mon, Soul."

-/-/-

Due to the taxi driver taking a shortcut that the police's satnav apparently didn't know about, I arrived at Mrs Williamson's flat far earlier than Lestrade. It seemed a lot more upmarket than Mrs Mavis's flat. There was anti-vandal paint around the walls, and CCTV cameras in the grounds. The communal bins were tidy, and the garden was newly mowed, with neatly clipped hedges.

I knew it was a long shot, given the rain that had fallen in the night, but I took Soul around the perimeter of the building to sniff the ground for any clues. She showed no sign of recognising any scent, other than relieving herself against a small shrub, and I doubted if she would consider a rogue human an interesting or threatening scent, or one deserving of the privilege of being urinated upon. She did show some interest in the path up to the door of the block, but it was a vague interest, spread over different scents, and I could tell nothing jumped out at her as being suspicious or noteworthy. If it had, she would have pulled hard and in a specific direction, and her nose would have been glued to the ground.

When Lestrade arrived, we buzzed and were let in by Mrs Williamson. She was frugal (her clothes had been sewn up in places, showing that she preferred to repair rather than replace), had kept a dog (scratches on her clothes, near the base, from a dog jumping up), but not anymore (no stains to match the scratches, showing multiple washes of the clothes since, and no hair in her flat). She was married, (she wore a wedding ring), and her husband was still alive (there were older men's' clothes on a clothes horse in the living room), but he was away (no man's coat in the hall, but two coat pegs, equally well used).

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice cut in. I looked up from my observations. Lestrade nodded at Mrs Williamson.

"I was saying, it's good of you to come," Mrs Williamson repeated.

"Oh. Were you?" I said, and shook the hand she offered. "I was just gathering data. Purely for curiosity."

Mrs Williamson smiled in a bemused manner, and let us in to her living room.

"This isn't a formal investigation," Lestrade said. "We appreciate that you've already put up with a lot of questions and investigations, and we don't want to inconvenience you any more than we have to. Sherlock here wanted to see you."

"Yes," I said. "I've just got two questions for you. Do you recognise this man?"

I showed her my photograph of Martin Mavis. Mrs Williamson took it and looked at it for some time. Her eyes moved back and forth over his face.

"That….if I didn't know better I'd say that could well be him…it's the same nose. The same cheekbones. He's even got the same freckle on the left just below his ear…"

"That's very interesting," I said. "I have a source that corroborates what you say. You may just have helped to validate the claims, and prove the sanity, of another possible witness. Second question: When this intruder was tying you down, did you struggle?"

"No, sorry. He grabbed my wrists from behind and pushed me down onto the sofa, so I really couldn't move."

"Oh."

"So then he tied me to that chair," she pointed at a strong wooden chair by the window. "I was in shock until the police came, and then when I'd calmed down I went to bed and slept late."

"Weren't you afraid of getting attacked again?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Only an idiot would return to the scene of the crime when the police were coming and going and collecting evidence, and what are the chances of two separate intruders having a go at me in one night?"

I smiled. "Lestrade, take a sample of the scrapings under each of her nails. Keep them for DNA testing."

While Lestrade was doing this, I checked the carpet. There were footprints, but they were over-layed by police shoes tramping in and out. I gritted my teeth in frustration. The window was tall and narrow, and opened sideways. The handle of the window had been wrenched, and the lock had broken, along with part of the wooden frame. This corroborated what Mrs Williamson had told the Record about the intruder's escape. However, once again, I was baffled as to how the intruder had escaped without leaving any scents or footmarks.

"Well, I'm finished if you are," Lestrade said, standing up.

"Mrs Williamson," I said, "You've been extremely helpful. You've also been very brave – I've not met many crime victims who could happily and knowingly sleep in their own beds alone, so soon after an attack."

"Well…thank you! I suppose I've just been brought up to be practical."

"Good. Bye now."

-/-/-

Before going home to have a good, hard think about the new information I had received, I stopped at Bart's, where Molly was working that day. She greeted me with a slightly shifty smile, and asked me how things were going. "Fine," I said. Soul settled herself under her usual trolley. "I got hold of a photo and some letters. Oh, and then I got arrested for breaking and entering, and suspected murder, and spent a night in the cells."

"WHAT?" Molly, who had been twisting a lock of her hair and leaning idly against some cadaver's rigor-mortised feet, leapt up and stared at me in horror.

"Yes," I said. "Some 'anonymous' source gave the police all the newly discovered medical details about Richard Mavis, so they sent someone round to investigate the flat. Whilst I was in it. I'd called round to look for a photograph and a motive. I certainly didn't give them the information, and you're the only other person who knew, so, as they say in the United States, go figure."

Molly had turned white. "God, Sherlock…I…I'm so sorry! I was only trying to help! Honestly…I had no idea it would lead to…I'm really sorry!"

I grunted and turned my back on her. It really annoys me when people grovel.

For a while nobody talked. "Look," Molly said at last, when she had pulled herself together a bit more. "There's been a murder. And I know I work in morgues and deal with death every day…and I know that you…that is…it doesn't…" She stuttered and closed her eyes for a second. "…You're not bothered about respect for the dead, and I can identify with that. Sort of… " She clenched her jaw and fixed me with an intense stare. "…But a person has died. And another person made them die…and that poor woman…she can't catch the killer. So we have to help her. I did what I thought was right at the time."

Again there was silence, while I thought about this. Part of me was still annoyed at her, but another part felt something akin to empathy. Not because she wanted to preserve a dead person's memory, but because – and keep this private – even high functioning sociopaths have consciences of a sort. And I know that when it comes to it, I don't like playing games with mine.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You did what you thought was right at the time. That's understandable. After all, you're a normal person. It's only natural you should want officials to get involved."

"Er…" Molly didn't seem to know whether to take this as a slight or as absolution.

"I need you to do something for me," I said.

"Anything at all," she replied quickly.

"You're a morguer…"

"A morgue attendant."

"Yes. And you have medical records. Do you have contacts?"

"Some."

"Well, I need all the medical details you can get concerning Martin Mavis. We're scientists. We can't have the dead walking…"

"No, we can't. Aside from anything else this lot would get jealous!" Molly waved a hand at the trolleys.

"It would be favouritism to say the least," I said, and failed to hold in a smile, which Molly took to be an unequivocal sign of forgiveness.

"C'mon, Soul, time to think," I said. We started to leave.

"I'm sorry…" Molly's voice called after me.

"Stop," I said, as I walked out of the morgue.

-/-/-

At home I let myself in and phoned the St Charles mental health centre. After half an hour of being evaded and made to jump through beurocratic hoops I managed to talk to one of the members of staff looking after Ellie Mavis. I told them that her description of the attacker had been corroborated by a second victim, and that they had identified the dead son as the victim too. I told them I wanted Ellie to know this, and said that in my opinion if there were no other signs of shock or delirium, she should be discharged, as there was clearly nothing wrong with her. They said they would take this into account and re-visit her case.

Then I took out a lighter and a box of cigarettes, and lay down on the bed. Soul jumped up and stretched herself out all the way up my body. Incidentally, all the time she was with me I found her an extremely useful motivating tool. Not that I needed a motivating tool, but since she always did this when I lay on my bed, I was forced to stay still until I had thought of a solution. I miss that. And for some reason the squishing helped to focus my mind. On the other hand she also had a habit of letting her tongue loll out, which meant saliva would drip off the tip, soaking my shirt.

I closed my eyes and smoked fifteen cigarettes in rapid succession, while I thought about what I knew, and what I needed to find out. I needed Ellie Mavis to be in a position where I could question her about her son, his past, their argument, her husband, the attacker and the attack itself – away from the prying eyes of officials. As much as it pained me to admit it to myself, I also needed to talk to Lestrade and persuade him that it was important to let me see any notes on Ellie Mavis, and any answers she had given to questions put to her at the time of the attack. Why had the police initially dismissed the death as one by natural causes if Ellie had been able to identify the attacker? Presumably because she was in shock at the time, and didn't give a coherent or sane enough statement to be taken seriously for records, or couldn't understand her rights or show she understood what was needed from her. She had been spirited away by paramedics as soon as possible as well. Perhaps she had refused to talk to the police, or talked only in retrospect, which would explain the single-minded scepticism of the centre with regards to the claims she was making. Then again, idiocy could quite adequately explain that too, in the case of most people. And I needed another attack to happen. Three is a magic number in detection: One is a petty crime. Two may well be a coincidence if circumstances are not exactly identical. But three…three is solidly serial, if the cause of death is the same and certain circumstances, such as condition before death, and type of building, are also similar. My next priority then was to question Ellie Mavis, and to call on Molly in the morning to find out what details she had managed to obtain.

When I opened my eyes, my shirt was soaking wet, and it was dark outside. I blinked. It had been light when I shut my eyes a second ago. As I moved, Soul jumped off the bed. I stood up and stretched. Then my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade. Molly asked me to call you."

"Put her on."

"I can't. We're over at Barts, and she wanted you to come and join us."

I glanced at my watch. It was half past eleven. "She stayed there a long time," I said.

"She'll stay even longer, I think," said Lestrade. "She's in surgery just now. She was attacked."

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_Sent today at 23:14:44 GMT (BST)_


	102. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 7

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Corpses

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I threw on my coat and left the flat, banging the door behind me as I went. Soul followed beside me, jumping up at my legs because she thought it was some kind of game. It was raining hard again that night, and the wind was strong enough to blow my coat out at the sides and back, before I wrapped it tightly. Out in the street there wasn't time to wait for a cab, so I simply started walking, en route to the hospital. And by the time I came across one that stopped when I hailed it, I was soaked to the skin and shivering hard. Once inside the warm taxi a steam formed over the windows.

As we arrived at the hospital I could see two police cars parked at the main entrance. That was good. It meant Molly could be out of surgery, alive, awake and ready to be questioned. I paid the cab driver, probably far more than he was due, but there wasn't time to do the calculation, or to wait for the correct change. I jogged towards the police car, out of which got a black haired, dark skinned woman in a high visibility coat.

"Constable Sally Donovan. You can't go in and neither can your dog," she said, and she stood in front of us, barring our way.

I adopted a rather pathetic, uncomprehending manner. "I'm sorry," I said. "Have…have I done something wrong?"

I tried to summon tears, but at this point this was something I had never been able to do on cue, so I merely added a tremble to my mouth and a hiccup to my voice. This is enough to convince most people.

"It's a crime scene and a hospital," said Sally Donovan.

"It's just…my Grandfather's in there. He had a heart attack. Today he was confirmed brain dead. They're keeping him alive on life support so we can say goodbye. This is his dog. He'd want to see him one last time. Please…"

"Oh yeah? So why did you run towards the police car? Why not the main doors?"

I didn't answer. "What's your name?"

"Holden Caulfield," I said. I'd heard the name before. Deleted the source long ago, but it sounded plausible enough.

Sally was silent for a few seconds. "Oh, poor, poor you!" she then said, not looking or sounding at all sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Sir, but rules are rules. There's been a brutal attack. My job is to stop reporters getting in, but I can do animals too. It's my first case and I'm not taking any chances. You'll have to wait."

"Let him past, Sally," came Lestrade's voice. I had been so in-character that I hadn't observed him approaching. "I'll see he doesn't cause any trouble or contaminate anything. The dog's a service dog."

"He doesn't look blind to me. He looks like a liar. Says his name's Holden Caulfield."

"Now now, Sally," said Lestrade. "No need to be judgemental."

Sally Donovan was a bully, through and through. Even when relieved of her duty of denying people things they wanted, she still showed reluctance to back down and allow me past. However, Lestrade was her superior, and she was powerless to do anything further, so she watched us resentfully as we walked in.

"You look like a drowned rat," Lestrade said. "And Holden Caulfield is the protagonist of a literary classic. Best not use that one again."

"Where's Molly?" I demanded.

"Up in the trauma unit. She's got a private room. I think you'd better come up – she wants to talk to you."

-/-/-

"Now, you might find this disturbing," Lestrade warned me, as we stood at Molly's door.

"Oh please, I'm Sherlock Holmes," I said.

But Lestrade wasn't having it. "I'm serious, Sherlock," he said. "Cos…I know what you think about yourself. And I know what you want others to think about you. And I know it's not true."

I pushed past him and into the hospital room. I found myself standing at the foot of a bed. An IV drip pump bleeped on the right hand side. The red lights and green bars of a pulse-oximeter machine flashed on the bedside locker. An emesis basin, a roll of toilet paper, a jug of water and a glass accompanied it. In the bed lay Molly. One arm had been placed in a sling and plaster cast, and her face was swollen with cuts and bruises, many very deep. She still had an oxygen mask on from the surgery to set her arm.

I approached the bed, and sat on the chair beside it. "It's me," I said. "And Soul." Soul crept forward and was about to lick Molly's hand before I called her off. The hospital had allowed her up, but I didn't want to tempt fate when this interview could potentially lead us to the core of the case.

The sound of my voice seemed to galvanise Molly.

"Hello!" she said. She tried to sound normal but her voice was too weak and groggy. She made a valiant effort to sit herself up.

"Stop doing that," I said. "You need to lie still at the moment, or the bones in your arm might not knit together properly. There's an electric switch here." And I took the switch which had fallen down the side of her bed, and operated it so that the bed inclined to a semi-sitting position.

"Are you concussed?" I asked.

"No…don't think so…"

"Then tell me what happened," I said.

"Well," said Molly, "I've just had a general anaesthetic, so I might not remember everything clearly. But you know you asked me to get Martin Mavis's medical information?"

"Yes…"

"Well I stayed on late in the computer lab. Cos there I can sign in as a hospital official and get access to things I wouldn't get on a home computer."

"And what did you find?"

"Well Martin Mavis is definitely dead," she said, "Because he donated his organs. So they have all the tissue matching, blood groups etc. to prove they were his, and they can trace the recipients."

"Fascinating," I said.

"I think it shows he was a good man," said Molly, before I could consider this any further.

I blinked at her. "What makes you say that?"

"Because if he wasn't a good man why would he donate his organs? He doesn't get anything out of it."

"Did all those blows somehow strike some detective genius into you Molly?" I asked her. She gave a huge smile, and I saw she was missing her left canine. "Of course, he could have signed up years ago and then gone bad," I said.

Molly's face fell. "Oh. Oh yeah," she said.

"Still, a pretty good deduction for someone who's just come out of an anaesthetic," I reminded her. "And how did the attack happen?"

"I went into the morgue. They came at me from behind. They must have hidden on one of the trolleys, waiting for me, pretending to be dead."

"And what did they do to you?"

"Well I struggled and managed to scratch his face with one hand. And he grabbed my other arm and snapped it."

Molly's eyes narrowed and she fixed on a corner of the ceiling while she remembered. "Well then I tried to scream but he covered my mouth and kicked in a window. Kicked it right out of its frame, and then he whispered in my ear."

"Yes…?" My heart was beating rather fast.

"He said: 'Tell me what you know about Martin Mavis or I'll put my fingers into your nostrils and my hand over your mouth, and keep them there until you slowly suffocate."

"He must be getting nervous about leaving linseed and gaffa tape trails. And what did you do?"

"I dragged my heel down his shin, and that's when he laid into my face with a shard of glass from the window. And then he said 'Is it Sherlock Holmes?'" I didn't answer, so he started to wrestle me across to the window. He was going to throw me out, I think."

"How did you get away?"

Molly grinned. "I managed to scream. Someone heard and started approaching the morgue. That's when he smashed my head off a trolley and…"

"And…?"

"Jumped out the window himself."

Suddenly Molly's face turned rather green. "I feel sick," she said thickly, and then swallowed hard several times in quick succession. Then she retched. Without thinking I grabbed the emesis basin, brushed Molly's hair away from her face, and supported her back with my hand so that she could lean forward over the bowl. She retched again and then vomited a small amount of clear, frothy, stringy liquid. When she was finished I put the emesis basin back on the table and tore off some toilet roll, with which she wiped her mouth.

"Water," she said, so I poured her some and handed it to her. She took a mouthful, swilled and spat. Then she drank. As she held the glass, I noticed that there was still some dirt under her nails, presumably because surgery had been performed so quickly, and the portion for operating had been isolated.

"Molly, to your knowledge, has you or anyone else washed your right hand?" I asked.

"I don't think so," said Molly.

"In that case…" I said, as I took a toothpick and a zip-lock sandwich bag out of my coat pocket, "I'd like to scrape under them, in case we can get DNA."

I took Molly's hand in mine, and pushed under the nail with the toothpick. She gave a squeak and jerked her hand away. "It tickles!" she said, and started to giggle.

I dithered for a second, genuinely taken by surprise. "Just try and keep as still as you can," I said, and I held her hand more firmly. Then I very gently placed the toothpick under the far side of her nail and ran it sideways along, like running one's tongue over one's teeth. She jerked a couple of times, and giggled, and I half-smiled in acknowledgement from time to time. Slowly I gathered samples from each finger on her right hand. "All done," I said. Molly lay back on the pillow and started breathing hard. There was sweat on her forehead.

"I think I should leave," I said. "Before I do, just two more questions. First, what was the man wearing?"

"He was dressed in black, but other than that I didn't get a good look," she said. "He had a rucksack on."

"Yes?" I was acutely interested at this – it corroborated Mrs Williamson's description. "And did he look like this?"

I showed Molly the picture. Here eyes widened. "My God…that's his face. The freckle's there and all!"

"I thought so," I said.

"Sherlock?" she said, as Soul and I started to go.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being like this. It makes me useless."

"Stop it," I said.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I saw a logo on the bag."

Instantly I was back at her bedside. "What was it?"

"Well…it's a bit hard to describe."

"Try."

Molly drew breath and once again fixed on the ceiling corner. "It looked like…the top part of an umbrella when it's put up. The bit that spreads out and shelters you from the rain. But with no handle…and then under that was a filled in circle, smaller than the top of the umbrella, directly below and in the middle. And then under that was, like, a wider line curving up like a smile. And under that was another line the same, but curving down like a frown."

I thanked our lucky stars that Molly's right hand had escaped injury. "Can you draw it?" I asked, and gave her a pencil and a post-it note. It was a laborious task, due to the drip in Molly's right hand restricting movement, but after approximately one minute she handed me the finished drawing.

"This," I told her, "Changes everything. C'mon Soul, he's ours!" I dashed out the room and into the corridor, Soul happily snapping at my feet. Then I stopped, turned, pushed the door ajar and poked my head through.

"Molly?"

She looked up. "Yes?"

"Get well soon," I said. She met my eye, and smiled at me. "The corpses are wasting for you."

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_Sent today at 22:13:09 GMT (BST)_


	103. Sherlock Email:  The Flying Ghost 8

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Ford

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"What does this tell you?" I thrust the piece of paper with Molly's drawing on it under Lestrade's nose.

Lestrade drew back as the paper invaded his personal space, took it from me and frowned at it. "It looks like a child drew it."

"Yes but what does it_ tell_ you?"

He shook his head. "Not a clue."

"Lots of clues, you just aren't observing! And people ask if I'm blind when they see Soul! Look," I took the piece of paper back off him. "There's the top of the parachute. There's the schematic head of the person. There are the arms up in the air. There are the legs, bowed and hanging down. Now that is genius. A criminal who can fly! Well…sort of. And it explains why we couldn't find any tracks or scents in the area below the windows. And…" I realised I was pacing back and forth in front of Lestrade. "…It explains why every attack took place in high rise flats or tall buildings…but not really high enough to parachute from, which is why he only attacked during strong winds. And the rain washed away any entry tracks. Clever…clever and reckless, ohhh I love him!"

"Freak," Sally Donovan said under her breath.

I stopped walking. "And the crowning glory?" I held up the bag with the toothpicks in.

"What the hell's that?"

"A DNA test. Molly scratched his face. _Now_ we'll see who's hallucinating!"

"Yeah…" Lestrade said, and I stopped walking. "Just one problem. Do you know how long it takes to get a DNA test processed in forensic labs?"

"Well PCR magnification of the evidence would be the rate limiting step…"

"Sherlock! There's a five to ten day backlog! By then another attack could have occurred!"

"No matter…"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade physically grabbed my shoulders to stop me walking away. I tried to struggle, but he was using his policeman's grip, which I was surprised to find was stronger than mine.

"I don't give a damn if _you_ don't care…but a human being has not been killed on your watch on this case. And that's important to me. So don't blow it."

"Well then, I'll just have to do the DNA test myself," I said. "They let me use the teaching lab here from time to time. And they'll already have the correct chemicals. I'll pay them back."

"And if the DNA turns out to be a match to Martin Mavis, how does it explain that?"

"It won't be a match," I said. "It can't be. Martin Mavis is dead. All the medical records say so. And you can meet the people whose lives his organs saved if you want living proof. And you can check _their_ medical records if you're still doubtful."

Lestrade looked as if he was struggling inwardly with a confliction of duties. On one hand he knew I would solve the case. After all, I was Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand it broke every rule of the police force to hand over evidence to a citizen for tampering. "Well…alright. But at least give me a bit of the evidence for the record." It seemed ridiculous to have to hand over two toothpicks to undergo exactly the same process as I was going to put them through, except with the addition of sitting for five days in a bag in a locker somewhere. But I extracted two toothpicks and put them in a separate bag, which I then gave to Lestrade. I waited for him to go. He didn't. He looked at the ground and then looked at me. "And what should I do now?"

You know, John, that there are very few times in my career that I have actually been struck dumb. But I was for a second just then. Here was a member of the official police force, with all its power and arrogance, actually asking me, a citizen with only self-acquired knowledge, what to do!

I ran dry momentarily. "Well…" I said after a moment's thought. "Would you do me the honour of taking Soul and working with her, while I set up the test to run?"

Lestrade looked almost as overcome as I had felt. But he covered it quickly and just said "Of course. What do you want us to do?"

"I want you to let Soul smell one of the toothpicks, and then I want you to lead her in concentric circles out from the hospital," I said. "He must have come from somewhere on the ground at some point."

"But the rain…"

"Any lead, however faint, is better than no lead at all."

I didn't really mind whether Lestrade and Soul found any evidence or not. I just needed some time alone. I unlocked the hospital laboratory and set up the equipment. Of course any other ex-science student would scoff at the 'old-fashioned' methods I was using. After all, here I was Southern blotting! But all I needed were twelve markers to give me an answer, and though it would take longer, it was far simpler than the tissue matching used in organ donation. At some point Lestrade delivered Soul back to me with no news, and practically begged to be released to get some sleep.

"Don't let them board up the window," I said. "Tomorrow we are going to set a trap."

"How do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"It's not 'how' it's 'what'. If he's prepared to kill a member of staff in a well-known hospital, with CCTV, while there are still patients and night staff within hearing distance, then he's acting with a sense of urgency and immediacy, and he'll be back. The sooner the better. That also makes sense because we know that this time the attacker wanted something – the medical records of Martin Mavis. He wanted to know how much_ we_ know, very probably because he hopes he can pass himself off as Martin Mavis if there's nothing to prove otherwise, which in turn suggests he's concealing his real identity, so he's already convicted, or on the run for something. I think he killed the parents because they knew too much about Martin Mavis."

"Yeah, and what about Mrs Williamson then? Where does she fit into all this?"

"That's one of the things I want you to find out during the day tomorrow," I said. "You can do that while we wait to set the trap. And right now – "

" – Right now I'm going home," Lestrade interrupted.

"Why?"

"Because I'm dead on my feet, that's why!"

"Oh. Well it can't be helped," I said and shrugged. "Read anything Molly has found. Interview Ellie Mavis, and meet me here at nine in the evening."

Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it and then left the room.

-/-/-

Sometimes I wonder whether my lack of need for sleep and my incredible astuteness are linked; whether the actual biology of my brain is different in some way, allowing for sustenance of alertness other brains can't achieve. Either way, I worked well into the afternoon of the next day without stopping, magnifying the DNA by PCR, fragmenting it, running it through electrophoresis gel and binding fluorescent probes to it, before blotting the pattern onto nylon sheets for examination. To be sure the results were correct, I ran three tests simultaneously. And at around three in the afternoon, I examined the patterns of fluorescence.

What I saw was not what I had expected. The DNA was a perfect match to the records for Martin Mavis, on all three nylon blots.

As I was looking at the third nylon blot and considering what to do, Lestrade came into the lab at a run. "She didn't read all of his records," he said. He was panting.

"What do you mean?"

"She must have taken a break or got distracted or something. She didn't read all of the information about what organs he donated." Lestrade picked up one of the nylon sheets by the corner. "It's a match, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said. "How do you know?"

"Because it isn't Martin Mavis," Lestrade said, "But it _is _his face."

I jumped up. "Have you let the press know?"

"No," said Lestrade. "You told us not to, but that's gonna be problematic now. You see, there's a press conference on the case this morning. The interest's going up. One attack a night, everyone's writing in making predictions about the next victim. They're calling him the Flying Ghost."

"Then tell them we have a new lead on this Flying Ghost," I said. "Say you can't divulge anything further at this point. Say the information is currently unconfirmed, but that you plan to confirm it this evening. Say you believe that once you have confirmed this information, you will be able to make an arrest. That'll draw him in…"

-/-/-

At nine O'clock precisely, Soul and I took a cab to Bart's hospital, where I met Lestrade and Sally Donovan at the main entrance. The stormy weather had broken, and the night was clear and quiet (or as quiet as London can be), with very little wind. This made me anxious: It was the one part of the plan that was left to chance. I hoped my plan would work.

"You got a girlfriend, Freak?" Sally Donovan asked.

"No."

"I can imagine." She chewed on some gum. "She'd be so jealous of the crime scenes."

"What do you mean?"

"You can't hide it," Donovan said. "You've got some kind of weird fetish for this sort of thing, haven't ya? I heard you yesterday."

"What's wrong with enjoying my work?"

This question stumped Sally for a few seconds. "Get a hobby," she said at last.

"This is my hobby."

"Murders as a hobby? You _are _a freak!" She leant against the police car. "Slippery slope," she said. "First you seek out bodies and when there aren't enough you make 'em yourself. I've got my eye on you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Come on in," Lestrade said, when he could get a word in edgeways. Sally, Soul and I followed him into the doorway. "So you say we have to lock the place down?"

"Yes. Make it as still and quiet as possible. Get the staff to turn all the lights off and move away from the windows and corridors."

"Should we turn the CCTV off?" Lestrade asked.

"No," I said. "Keep it on or he might get suspicious. If he's clever enough to steal a face and parachute out of danger, he's clever enough to spot a trap."

-/-/-

We made our way up to the computer lab. This was on the sixth floor. It was a long room, contained approximately fifty computers, each separated by wooden wings to give the user browsing privacy.

"Lestrade, you hide in the cupboard in the corridor outside," I said. "Soul and I are going under the table to wait."

"And how long do you expect him to take?" Lestrade asked, with more in mind than simple curiosity, I thought.

"Oh, I'd say six hours at the most, assuming he comes," I said. "I don't know what normal people do to stay occupied. Perhaps you could imagine you were in a telephone box having a long conversation to your wife."

"Perish the thought," Lestrade whispered, and squeezed himself into the cupboard. Soul and I settled down.

The hours ticked by. Every now and then Soul twitched beside me, but I put a hand on her back to signal to her to stay still and wait. Four in the morning approached. It would be getting light soon, and then he most certainly would not want to risk his cover jumping from windows. I began to wonder whether I had made the right decision with regards to how to catch this man. And then, at nearly half past four, Soul and I both heard a scuffling at one of the windows of the lab. It seemed to be coming from slightly above and moving down. The man had climbed. He had somehow ended up on the higher floors, either by parachuting or by simply waiting incognito all day. Molly was still being treated for her injuries, so hiding in the morgue with the bodies would be much easier than usual. Now there was a gentle, sliding nose. The catch of the window was being manipulated to force it to open from the outside, by the sound of it with the nail file of a Swiss army knife. Then the window was slid up in increments, a few millimetres at a time. I felt Soul quivering beside me, and the hairs on the back of her neck were raised. "Not yet," I whispered straight into her ear, in the barest breath.

A cork-heeled foot slid slowly through the window, followed by a leg clad in skin-tight black leggings. Then a fleece, and a rucksack. Slowly the man slithered through the window, until he was standing in the computer lab. Although it was dark, I could make out the high cheekbones long nose and large freckle that unmistakably denoted the face of Martin Mavis. "Wait…" I said to Soul, as he tiptoed closer, and then past, sending a tiny breeze across my face. The man looked around, and then sat down at one of the computers. He turned it on, and was met with the login page. He hesitated, and then typed in Molly's username, before seeming to think, and then attempting a password. He was denied. He tried again and was denied again. As he became more engrossed and frustrated, Soul and I slid silently from beneath the table and stood behind him.

At last the man punched the keys in frustration, got up and walked straight into my arms. "Gotcha!" I said.

The man gave a great roar, and grabbed me by the throat. I tried to push him away but he caught my arm in an attempt to snap it, as he had Molly. That was when Soul leapt at him from behind and took his trousers in her teeth. She pulled backwards with all her considerable strength, and I was able to free my hand. The man righted himself, and flung me away from him. I hit one of the computer booths with the side of my head, and had to fight away the blackness of unconsciousness. I pulled myself up and saw Soul, still hanging onto the man's trouser leg and giving guttural, loud growls. The man pulled out a knife and was about to stab Soul with it when I tackled him from behind. It was at this point Lestrade came bursting into the room. Old women are one thing. Young girls are another, but two fully grown men and a dog that is half Alsatian were too much for the man, and Lestrade managed to clap handcuffs on him. Even then he had to practically lie on top of him to get him to stay still enough.

I got down on my knees in front of the man and pushed his chin up with my hand. "Very impressive," I said

The man snarled by way of reply.

"Hello," I added amiably. "Don't be cross. I don't make the rules, you know. I just like solving the riddles. Yours was very good. If you'd only chosen a different rucksack to pack your parachute in we'd still be guessing."

I looked up at Lestrade. "I haven't introduced you, have I?" I said to him. "Alan Alexander Raymond Ford – a keen parachutist and convicted drugs trafficker, robber and, as of three years ago, murderer. He fell off the police's radar after a house burned down with him in it. Police thought he had died – the fire was hot enough and burned for long enough to reduce all human remains and degrade DNA beyond analysis. He torched the house himself, in an act then believed to be a murder-suicide. The occupant of the house was a policeman. Seargent Oliver Fawkes from Leeds, who had amassed a body of evidence as to Ford's whereabouts, and all his criminal activities. So Ford destroyed it all in the fire, and almost destroyed himself too. He got away, but his face was essentially gone. A convicted murderer in an accident serious enough to disfigure him for life and take him off the radar – Ford's case is the only one that fits, according to my research."

"His face was transplanted in an anonymous medical trial for a new transplant protocol. He was known all the way through simply as X."

"Yeah, that was the trial at the end of Martin Mavis's records," said Lestrade.

"…And so, with the new face, you had a chance to become someone else and see if you could cheat the system successfully, elegantly," I said. "As I've already mentioned, you would have done if you'd used a different rucksack."

Ford squirmed beneath us. "An old Shikari trick," I said. "They tether a goat to a tree, lie near it with a rifle and then wait for the bait to bring them a tiger. Well, this hospital is my tree, and you are my tiger!"

"Ok, ok," said Ford at last. "Arrest me, you win. But shut him up, can't you?"

"Well he's pretty stubborn," said Lestrade. "But I know the feeling. I can try. Eh, Sherlock?"

"That was all I wanted to say anyway," I said. "Congratulations, Lestrade."

Lestrade's eyes opened wide. "ME?" he asked. "What about you?"

"Molly found out about the parachute, and I devised the plan, but you discovered the face, and that led to you arresting him. The credit goes to you!"

-/-/-

In the end, given the events that transpired, I did not need to speak to Ellie Mavis again. It was obvious that she hadn't viewed her son after death, or known about the organ donation. Lestrade did receive a letter from her though, amongst lots of other praise and recognition from the press and public. She re-stated that her son, whilst bad tempered and stubborn, would sooner leave his mother forever than cause her any physical harm, and that she would always feel guilty that she could have thought he had murdered his own father. We also found out, through a simple phone call, that Mrs Williamson had lived next door to Ford before he had 'died', and had kept his garden tidy and looked after his house when he was away. When she had discovered that his trips away were to commit crimes, she stopped at once and called the police, who promptly arrested him. After that she had asked for protection, and been moved into her current flat. By coincidence it had been high enough to parachute from, allowing him to later attempt revenge on her for turning him in.

One day, I was pottering in the morgue, when Molly cleared her throat behind me. She was standing in the doorway. It was the first time I had seen her in the morgue since her accident.

"Well," I said. "Who could have known that dead bodies could be so troublesome?"

"Yeah – it's a _bit _more exciting than I thought it would be!" She grinned, and her face softened. "Sherlock, you were very kind to me in the hospital."

"I would have done the same for anybody. It was purely mechanical." I walked up and down between the rows of trolleys, looking at the feet with my lens. Particularly the toenails. Toenails can tell you a great deal about a person. Toenail fungus means a warm, moist environment, which probably means tight, un-breathable shoes all day and a heated room, such as an office or bedroom. Worn down nails on the toes, coupled with leathery feet, often mean a person was recently on holiday somewhere hot. Soft feet and evenly clipped toenails usually belong to women who have had pedicures, or to ill people who have been unable to wear down nails or harden the skin. And there were a lot of these in the morgue today, suggesting some kind of hospital bug outbreak, especially if the name bracelets were still in place and showed that the ward number was the same in each case…

Molly drew breath. "What do you think of a coffee sometime?" she asked.

I looked up. "Coffee would be lovely," I replied. "Black, two sugars."

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_Sent yesterday at 00:04:11 GMT (BST)_


	104. Soul

_[JW: I found this in my inbox afterwards, on the day Sherlock jumped. I believe he knew what was going to happen…but I will never believe he was a fake. You can decide for yourselves – I don't care. I've not been able to bring myself to post it up until now, but his final sentence has brought me a small degree of comfort.]_

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From: Sherlock Holmes **s_hol&yahoo,co,uk**

To: John Watson **j_Watson&gmail,co,uk**

Subject: Soul

CC:

BCC:

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At some point I am going to have to tell you why Soul is no longer here. In fact, everything else I've told you about her has, in a sense, been an attempt to postpone the inevitable.

There is a chest in my room, under my bed, and in it you will find old case notes from my early days. Everything I still have concerning Soul is in there. There was the case of the giant rat – she particularly enjoyed that one. And the case of the twins in the mansion, and the internet stalker who lived next door, and the man who played Wagner very loudly to mask the sound of his hostages. There is no doubt in my mind that Soul helped me to establish my career in its early stages, with her keen sense of smell, hearing and intuition. Much as it irritated me at the time, she seemed to make far more of an impression on those we met than I did. John, when we first met I'd already built up a significant reputation. Maybe it was not as huge as it was once you started your blog (alright, I'll give you credit where it's due), but I was known and acclaimed among the circles in which I needed to be. But that's because Soul taught me, among other things, to progress theories based on observation and deduction, into practices and plans that would actually ensure correct convictions. Of course, we didn't succeed every time – even I'm not that good. So there was always the risk that this success would lead to trouble in the future. But I thought if there was a danger of our success backfiring, it would backfire on _me, _the detective. After all, she was just a service dog.

It was my fault, and one could say it was all because of a bottle of milk. Blue top milk, one pint. I suppose my guard may have been let down, as it was two days after we had worked through a particularly difficult case involving a sect into which newcomers were sworn to serial raping, and an old man had been sworn in to escape targeting from a huge underground gang. Yes, they do exist in Britain. As you know from the blind banker case, anything involving vast underground networks is notoriously difficult to fully tie-up, given the hierarchical structure, and the fact that everyone supports everyone, on pain of retribution from everyone else. Soul posed as a general watch and guard dog, and I managed to convince the sect that I wished to join, before luring the sect leaders into being encircled by the police. I never knew Soul any braver than she was on that particular case. My major mistake was letting the sect get to know us, our routines and our methods too well. I'm stalling again.

On the day, I had been typing my notes up, sitting on my bed with Soul cuddled beside me. I decided I would like something quick to eat, and searched the cupboards. I found corn flakes, but no milk, so I put on my coat and scarf and went down to the newsagents to pick some up. Since I was only going to be away for five minutes, I left Soul behind in the flat. Having paid for the milk I returned straight home to the flat. I wasn't observing or deducing on the way up – why should I? We had finished our case and were spending the next three days relaxing. "I'm back," I called out. There was no reply, and not even any audible indication of movement. "Soul?" I called, and went through to the bedroom.

The bedclothes were ruffled up on the bed, obscuring my view of her at first, but as I got closer I saw. She was lying pressed up against the wall, which was splattered with blood. I dropped the milk, which didn't burst on the floor, and walked over, as though walking a plank.

"Soul…fuck…Soul…" I said, but my voice came out softer than I expected. I sat down on the bed – my legs suddenly didn't have any strength to stand. I wrapped my arms around Soul's cooling body and dragged her so that she was lying across my lap. Her eyes were open in little glassy slits, and her lips were drawn back to expose her teeth. The fur on the back of her neck was ruffled and standing up where someone had grabbed her to hold her still. A bullet had shattered the white heart shape in her fur, and the blood was still warm and sticky. It was far too late to do anything to bring her back, even if there was anything I could have done, which there wasn't.

Instinct took over. The entry wound was at an angle, and was neat and close for a gun fired at close quarters. I wrenched the bed back and found more blood dripping down the wall onto the floor at the bottom. The bullet was lodged in the join between the wall and the floor. I dug it out, and examined it. It was from a single-shot pistol, which to me indicated that the execution had been premeditated and carried out to plan. There was a batch number on it that would allow for easy tracing. Besides, everyone who routinely uses a gun has a very characteristic muscle profile in their gun hand. I then looked at the duvet covers, and there was a knee imprint, where someone had anchored themselves to carry out the deed. The size of the knee and trail of the shinbone allowed a quick calculation. The assassin stood at an unintimidating five and a half feet tall.

When I looked down there were distinctive footmarks on the floor, as though the person hadn't even particularly tried to cover their tracks. I traced the foot prints and the roll of the assassin's weight as he walked, and was able to deduce a loping stride, long for his height. From this information alone I could narrow it down to one particular gang member. I had only seen him briefly, but Hunter Delaney had been a trainee hit-man. Just a trainee. That would have been why they viewed him as expendable, and had therefore allowed him to walk into my hands.

If Soul had died valiantly after a vicious but fair fight during the solving of a case…or if she had had at least some chance to fight back or suspect something was afoot and take action, or even if she had been hit by a car – something accidental and innocuous in its intent, it would not have been so traumatic. But there was absolutely nothing redeeming in her death. The room was as tidy and quiet as it had been when I left. There wasn't even any evidence that Delaney had taken pleasure in doing this to Soul, except for perhaps the touch of firing through the heart-shape on her shoulder, rather than into her skull. He hadn't tried to traumatise or shake either of us up in the process and, paradoxically, that was what struck me more than anything else. The killing had been carried out as though by a machine. As though Hunter Delaney had been ticking off items on a shopping list. Get the paper, shoot the dog, buy washing powder. He came in, he found her, he shot her and then he left. It was an almost ridiculously passive way to die.

I picked up the phone and called Lestrade.

"Sherlock? What have you got?"

Word formation was no longer automatic. "I'm reporting a murder at 1 Montague Street."

"Right, we're dispatching someone."

"No. Come yourself. Please." It was one of the only times I have ever entreated someone in that way.

There was a pause. "I'm on my way," said Lestrade, and put the phone down hard. At that point, the bile rose suddenly, and before I could swallow it away again I was sick onto the floor beside the bed.

-/-/-

I'm not really sure what happened in the immediate aftermath. Lestrade arrived. He asked repeatedly for details of the criminal, height, description, occupation, everything, and made me examine the room again and again, and show how the criminal had entered and exited. I was grateful for that. Focussing on such details took my mind away from what had actually happened. He ordered an autopsy. Forensics scoffed. Lestrade insisted. They took Soul's body away. Mycroft came round. He wanted me to stay at his flat but I refused. I gave him the bottle of milk though - in a sense it had killed Soul and I wasn't prepared to drink it myself as a result. Forensics could find no trace of drugs in Soul's body, and she hadn't been smothered either, so until she was shot she had been conscious.

After that I lost track of time. I spent a lot of my time looking down a microscope, as some kind of escapism into inner space. Or in a semi-conscious state of mind somewhere between asleep and awake. I'm not a fanciful person, but often when in bed I thought I could feel Soul's weight on top of me, and even hear her breathing. It was like she was back again, or part of her. Molly was round at some point. She may be an airhead when everything is calm and peaceful, but in this case she had a quiet method and consistency which on reflection I desperately needed. In fact she was there a lot in the following days, now I come to think of it. She made me eat and wash, and she opened the blinds in the day, and closed them at night so that a normal light-dark cycle was maintained. She also dragged me out on walks.

I don't remember crying at the time, but for weeks afterwards I felt a sharp, insistent, throbbing ache in my chest. It surprised and upset me that I couldn't seem to cry, and couldn't even call the sensation I felt 'sadness'. Sentimentality and sensationalism are two things, but when someone or something you love dies, you are supposed to feel sadness and cry. I would never have imagined myself in a position to love, but that had been the case with Soul, or so I had thought. And yet I felt nothing in the days following her death. So it followed that whatever feelings I thought I had developed must in fact have been illusions. A sociopath. Just a higher functioning one than most.

They caught Hunter Delaney. Being a trainee it was the first time he had killed, and as Soul was only an animal, he got a fraction of the sentence he would have received had she been a human being. He was relocated once released, with a new identity. I haven't been able to trace him to date, which is lucky for him.

Over time I did begin to re-establish my connections within the world of crime. At first this took the form of purely theoretical research. Theoretical research is something I would not have required the assistance of Soul for had she been alive, and therefore I felt her absence less keenly whilst absorbed in it. Gradually this research began to be with the objective of proving or disproving alibis, in an effort to aid the police in their cases. Although I wouldn't stay with Mycroft, I soon realised that it would be impossible to remain in the flat at Montague Street and continue my career as a consulting detective. That's when I contacted Mrs Hudson, and found out about the rooms at Baker Street.

And that, in an extremely long-winded nutshell, is why I will never keep a pet again. It's just too dangerous, and it would be impossible not to get them involved in my work in some form. That's not fair on any pet. Besides, who could ever replace Soul? I tried to delete her for a while. Your questions reminded me just how impossible that is. She is the only being in this world that I have ever completely trusted and truly admired and cared for, for reasons far beyond intellect or ingenuity.

When I think of her now, I _am_ liable to cry. So I have been in the habit of only thinking about her when I have to cry on cue for some reason.

I still want to kill Hunter Delaney. I think of him every time I have to beat up a corpse for research.

And I know that I will not die peacefully in my bed. I accepted that with the job. But when I do go, I know who I'll go out thinking about.

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	105. Phonecall from an Idiot

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

"Hello?"

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"No."

"Oh. His website says this is the number to contact him."

"I was his flatmate. And his friend."

"What's your name?"

"John Watson."

"You're the one that does the stories aren't you?"

"Case reports, yes."

"Well I want to speak to Sherlock Holmes. It's urgent."

"Well you can't."

"I _must_!"

"Well you _can't._"

"And why not?"

"Because he's dead."

"Oh. I thought he was indestructible."

"So did I, I suppose."

"I would have expected better. Surely he could have seen an attack coming and planned a way out, if he's as good as he says he is."

"He was. And it wasn't an attack."

"Then what was it?"

"Suicide."

"Ah. Well never mind, you'll do. You've worked with him, haven't you?"

"A few times, yes."

"Then you'll know his methods, so you can solve my case."

"What case?"

"I want you to prove that my ex-husband is harming my children."

"I can certainly investigate..."

"Yes, do so as soon as possible."

"Right then, why don't you come round at 2pm tomorrow and fill me in?"

"To 221B Baker Street?"

"No, to number 7 Kensington Road".

"But it _says _221B on his website!"

"Yes but he's not exactly around to _update _it now, is he?"

"It's good customer service to keep clients updated!"

"Fine. I'll visit his grave tomorrow and give him a talking to from you."

"Now now, no need to get defensive, I meant no offence. It just seems a little strange, that's all. So you'll see me?"

"Yes. I can't promise I'll be able to find out whether your husband is abusing the children though."

"But that isn't what I want you to do!"

"Then what _do _you want me to do?"

"I want you to prove it!"

"But what if he's not?"

"That's not important! If I can prove he's harming the children I'll get custody of them."

"Ah, so you're not interested in the truth. You just want ammunition!"

"I want my children, that's what I want! He's going to take them away from me!"

"I see."

"So if you produce evidence that he's abusing them he'll be considered an unfit parent."

"Great! What kind of evidence do you want?"

"I don't know, that's your job. Some legal-ish sounding thing. Or perhaps you can record him unawares and edit it. It's really not my area."

"Yeah, just one teensy little problem with that plan. Sherlock Holmes never faked evidence. He only used what was already there to his advantage. So if your husband _isn't _abusing the children, I can't magically produce evidence that will stand up in court which says he is. Even if I could, I wouldn't."

"You don't know this man. He's evil but very clever! I had M.E. and he decided it was all in my head and tried to have me committed so he could gain control of my assets. For the children's future, he said. Then I tried to move out with the children and he said if I did he would sue me for the money I supposedly owed him for house renovations done just after we married and moved in together. He's using both those things as evidence against me now. So you see, what I'd be doing is no worse than what he's already done!"

"Well can't you cite these things instead of making up something new?"

"He's saying he did it all in the interests of the children, to make sure they were provided for. The social services believe him!"

"I can see if I can dig up evidence he was doing it for his own gain rather than the children's, if you like."

"There won't be any evidence. Like I said, he's very clever. He preys on people at their most vulnerable, and never on anything with concrete evidence to support it. It's not the first time he's argued in front of a court."

"Look, I really think you'd be better speaking to a solicitor."

"I _have _done. They're representing me but it's not enough. I need concrete evidence against him to stand a chance – something that directly concerns the children's welfare if they go to him, and there isn't any."

"Well, sorry if I'm sticking my nose in, but your children already have one lying parent with no moral principles. They don't need two."

"Well _that's _not a very professional thing to say!"

"That's the advantage of not being a professional."

"Sherlock Holmes would have gone along with it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Cos he's a psychopath. He doesn't have any feelings or morals."

"Oh didn't he? Tell me, what's the difference between a criminal and a detective? Brainpower or morality?"

"Psychopaths don't have morality…"

"He could have switched sides any time he liked but he didn't."

"He does it for his own interest –"

"He _did_ it because he didn't like to see liars and cheats getting away with taking advantage of vulnerable people…"

"_I'm _a vulnerable person!"

"So are your children. And by putting them at the centre of a lie you're taking advantage of them."

"So you won't take the case?"

"No. Not if all you want is doctored evidence to use as a playing card."

"Fine. I can see it's useless. Well, don't blame me if the children get murdered because _you _wouldn't help me protect them."


	106. Four Months to the Day

_**Posted by John H. Watson**_

Bloody therapist. Four months, you'd think it would be settling in. Not getting easier, but at least settling into place. It's not. She thinks she's got inside my head. She says the reason I can't move on is because I haven't let go of Sherlock, and I haven't let go of him because I haven't accepted that he's dead. If I deny this, she simply says that these things often go deeper than we can consciously perceive. Well that's a convenient, catch-all response if ever there was one!

First, I HAVE accepted Sherlock is dead. For the first month or so, no, I didn't. I thought perhaps I'd missed something when the cyclist mowed me down – and then I thought the cyclist WAS Sherlock, and tried to track it down. Well there are a million cyclists in London so that didn't exactly work out. Anyway, I saw him – it was definitely him. I saw him fall and I saw him dead. So then, I thought maybe it wasn't him. I thought the animals in the lab were supernatural beasts after all, and that was a drug messing with my brain. But I saw them carry him away – it was announced on the news so there must be a general consensus that it was him. He was IDed by DNA and dental records, for Christ's sake. Anyway I've got to accept it, if not for anything else then for my own sanity…because if he _did _turn out to have faked his own death to prove some point or close some case, I don't think I'd be strong enough to forgive him.

Anyway, after that I behaved very badly. Everything anyone said about Sherlock I took to be an insult to his memory. I got into more than one brawl over it actually – got arrested once, but Lestrade got me off lightly given the circumstances.

It's not just the banter I miss: My body doesn't do quiet and mundane. Give me action – give me danger. Give me something unusual to focus on and someone to chronicle – then I feel comfortable in my own skin. But I hate this. This dull, routine existence. She also says I haven't accepted that I'm a normal citizen again, and not a soldier. Well that's bollocks – of course I haven't accepted I'm not a soldier – I've been a soldier of sorts for the last two years!

The therapist told me that if I couldn't talk I needed to write – even if I just threw it away afterwards. How can I write when all I've written about for the past two years is him? Now saying it out loud it sounds weird. As though I've been stalking him or obsessed with him. Maybe I was. Anyway because the instruction came from her I resisted with all my might, especially as I didn't think I could handle the disparaging comments that would surely appear on the blog from the nonbelievers.

But she is right. It _has _helped. And I hadn't acknowledged my own feelings properly. I suppose that's partly where the anger comes from, because the world doesn't give a fuck about grief. You're expected to be man about it and keep it to yourself – no-one wants to know, not really. "What can I do?" and "If you want to talk I'm here" are self-serving comments. Stupid fucking people. Harry, Sherlock. They're the exceptions. Harry simply doesn't know how to deal with someone like that so she just behaves normally and follows their lead, and Sherlock was too self-absorbed to worry about feelings.

It's Harry I'm staying with now. I needed the distraction and being Harry she takes at least a little of the tedium of life away. You never know what you're going to see when you walk in the door. Yesterday there were close to one hundred cranes made of coloured card suspended by fishing gut on the living room ceiling, and she was seated on the floor, with hundreds more of the things piled all around her up to her waist. I'd been roaming around the streets, and didn't get back until seven in the morning. She'd been too zingy to sleep the previous night, apparently, so had sat up instead, making these. She'd read that if you folded a thousand of the things, you would be granted a wish. She said she'd been folding them so that I could wish for Sherlock to not be dead. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. I asked her to show me, and for six hours we sat together in the middle of the floor like two kids, folding paper cranes. About halfway through it became a race. The one to make the thousandth crane would win the bath for the evening (she's as fond of bubble baths as I am).

Towards the end we were elbowing each other out the way as we dived for more card – and I was laughing. It was absurd and childish, but I was _laughing_, and Sherlock would have considered it pointless, but not Harry, and it felt good to be doing something pointless again for a change, without being judged on my every action and minute detail. Then of course that made me feel very guilty. Like I'd desecrated his memory or something.

Harry made the thousandth crane. We strung them up together, leaned against the far wall, and looked at them as we got our breath back. It was like a universe filled with cranes instead of stars.


	107. Photo Album

**Left to Right; Mycroft holding Sherlock, Maria, 6****th**** January 1976**

A hospital bed. Mycroft is sitting on it, but he is clearly not the patient the bed is intended for. On his head he has a gauze dressing and on the dressing is some sort of sticker. In one hand the Mycroft holds a toy music box with a turning handle, and on his lap there is a mass of blankets, with a tiny, wrinkly red hand poking out. Beside Mycroft there is a young woman with bouncy, shoulder-length brown hair, a roman nose and the wide, crooked smile that both Sherlock and Mycroft have inherited.

**Sherlock, 3 and a Half Months, Bath at Granny's**

A long, thin baby lying on his back in a bath with a few centimetres of water. Said baby is naked (but his nether regions are covered with a flannel), and he is clasping a sponge to his bosom. He is sucking on said sponge whilst twisting his feet together. He is looking at the camera almost furtively.

**Sherlock and Mycroft, 1978**

Two boys on a beach, facing the sea with their backs to the camera. They are holding hands. One is about nine and wearing shorts and sandals. The younger, a toddler, is wearing nothing at all. The toddler is thin, as toddlers go, and has a mop of curly blonde hair that reaches almost to his shoulders. If it weren't for the caption identifying said toddler as Sherlock I would have automatically assumed it was a girl. Mycroft is clearly identifiable, thanks to the previous picture.

**Mycroft Holmes and Madeline Cane, date unspecified (but early primary school-age in looks)**

A small, fat, boy-Mycroft aged five, with piercing blue eyes and moppish brown hair, is smiling, chin-up, at the camera. Beside him is a beautiful little girl about the same age, laughing with her mouth wide open, into the camera. She has dark, medium-long, wavy hair, a round, impish face, pronounced freckles, a button-nose and sparkling, light eyes. She wears a light, floral-patterned summer frock, white socks that come up to just below her knees, and red buckle shoes. There is a hair-ribbon in her hair which has caught the wind. Mycroft is holding her hand. They are standing on a small, flat, neatly cut lawn, outlined by hedges, with a Summer house in the background.

**First Violin, 1980**

A three year old Sherlock is standing in the living room, in front of a bookcase, in the foreground of the shot, with a miniature violin under his chin. He is hunched over, because he is not using any hands to support the violin. His eyebrows are down, his lips are pouting and he has an intense look of concentration on his face. His gaze is dropped – looking at the bridge of the violin, which accentuates his much-too-long eyelashes. The hair is even wilder, longer and curlier than in the previous photo – and falls all round his shoulders.

**A Bath with Big Brother, 1980**

In this picture, Mycroft and Sherlock are sitting either end of a bath, which is piled with bubbles. Mycroft, who is about eleven, has a pile of bubbles sitting on his head, and another one like a white beard covering his chin. Sherlock is doubled forward, one starfish-like hand gripping the side of the bath. He is laughing fit to burst.

**First Day of School, August 1981**

A very solemn Sherlock is standing on the stone doorstep of a house, looking right at the camera. He is wearing a white shirt and dark trousers, with black, plastic sandals. His right leg is jinked at the knee, so that although it does not actually cross his left, his weight is shifted, and only the toe of his right foot rests on the ground. He has a brown leather satchel over his right shoulder, which he is holding in place with that hand. The left hand holds a shiny grey tin lunch box.

**Gap, 1982**

There is clearly a significant time lapse between the previous picture and the last picture. Sherlock is now about six years old. The hair has darkened somewhat, but is still curly and untidy, and still comes down to some point past his ears. The face is once again solemn, but there is a twinkle in the eyes this time. He is baring his teeth at the camera. The bottom right lateral incisor is missing. Sherlock is holding it up for the camera, between his thumb and forefinger.

**Anthony and Cleopatra, 1982**

This one is a photograph of Mycroft, aged about twelve. He is doing a silly smile, but his face is ridiculously distorted by the fish bowl through which he is peering. There are two fancy goldfish in it.

**Tree House, 1982**

Mycroft and Sherlock are sitting on the ledge of what looks like a three-walled wooden Wendy house, which has been lodged between two big branches of an oak tree. Their legs are dangling over the edge of the floor. Mycroft is doing a cheesy grin at the camera. He has his right arm around Sherlock, pulling him sideways across his body, and he appears to be vigorously rubbing the top of Sherlock's head with the knuckles of his fisted left hand. Sherlock, oddly enough, is trying to smile in this picture – perhaps hoping it will make the ordeal last for a shorter time…

**EEG at the hospital 1982**

This is the first indication of Sherlock's past troubles, not just health-wise but family-wise as well. However, in this picture, Sherlock looks perfectly happy. He is sitting up in a hospital bed, propped up by pillows, with the table pulled across. On the table there is a plate with chips, strawberries and a chicken drumstick on. Sherlock is holding a strawberry by the green top, between the fingers of his left hand. Said hand is bandaged, with the stopcock valve of a cannula visible. He is tilting a baby beaker of apple juice upwards to his mouth with his other hand.

**Bouncing on the Bed, 1984**

This picture is slightly blurred. Sherlock and Mycroft – now a teen, are both bouncing on a double bed with a flowery quilt. Both boys are wearing pyjamas. They appear to be having a competition to see who can bounce the highest. Mycroft's eyes are squeezed tight shut with effort, his arms are stretched upward, and his pyjama top has flown up with the momentum of his bounce. Sherlock too is bouncing hard, but his effort takes a different form. His lips are tightly pursed and his eyes narrowed, in an expression he carried through to adulthood too when concentrating. He is looking down at the bed as he jumps, rather than at Mycroft, as if evaluating his own effort as much as trying to win. His fists are clenched and his elbows bent upwards, perhaps in an effort to streamline and balance himself better. His knees are tucked up to his chest. This is the first photo in which I have seen a real indication of the person he was to become.

**Donkey Riding, 1984**

Another unsmilingly simple photograph. Sherlock is perched on top of a donkey. He is sitting on a cloth saddle, legs almost, but not quite, long enough to reach the leather stirrups. He is clutching the pommel of the saddle, and the reins of the bridle, but his contact is non-existent and as a result the donkey is falling asleep. He is wearing what appears to be a cycle helmet.

**Metal Detector, 1986**

Sherlock and Mycroft are in a large, flat field. Sherlock, although still primary school age, has grown several inches since the last photograph, and his arms and legs have become skinnier. Mycroft appears to be in his mid-teens now. His cheekbones and eyebrows have become more prominent, and his nose has lengthened and narrowed. He holds himself differently too – in the manner of one whose carefree childhood has been tarnished, and who has begun to take on the challenges of growing into the adult world. He is much taller, and has put on quite a lot of weight. The field is covered in tuffets and tussocks of grass, with the odd lichen-covered rock. Each boy is holding a metal detector and posing for the camera. Mycroft looks like he is actively trying to make a happy

family picture. Sherlock looks as if all he wants to do is get back to metal detecting.

**Fish Fingers for Tea, 1989**

Sherlock, now early secondary school age, is hunched over a book. I can't see exactly what it is, but I see a picture of a toadstool, and I have my suspicions. One hand is holding the book flat, and the page open. The other hand is holding a fork, idly piercing a fish finger on a plate beside him.

**Playing Monopoly, January 1993**

Sherlock and Mycroft are seated opposite each other, with the game board on a coffee table in the middle. Sherlock looks thoroughly bored, and has very little game money in front of him. Mycroft looks as if he is thoroughly enjoying himself, and has a large pile of money, and several property cards, in front of him.

**First Microscope, 6****th**** January 1993**

This is the first photo that I really thought – "That _is_ Sherlock" about. He looks about eighteen, and is seated at a wooden desk in a single bedroom. On the wall I can glimpse a target board, and on the bedside table a chemistry experiment in glass tubes – it appears to be a distillation of sorts. In the foreground, Sherlock is hunched over, long fingers adjusting the focus on a home microscope, whilst he peers into the eyepiece intently. His face is lit by the miniature light shining up from beneath the microscope slide and cover slip.

**University Residence (chemistry undergraduate), September 1996**

A young adult Sherlock is leaning against a fridge-freezer, with his arms folded. His mouth is twisted into a crooked, half-restrained smile, and he is looking at the camera with an almost smug expression. He is wearing a leather jacket.

**The Holmes Family, 1995**

Maria Holmes is standing in the middle, dwarfed on either side by Sherlock and Mycroft. They are standing in front of a wooden gate in the countryside, which leads into a field that looks very like the one in the picture of Sherlock and Mycroft metal detecting. Maria's curly brown hair is swept slightly over her face, and she leaning against the gate and smiling happily into the camera. She wears a flowery dress. Although she looks wholly content and happy in this photo, there are care lines around her eyes, eyebrows and mouth. She also has a few grey hairs. On her right, Mycroft looks much the same as he does now, but with thicker hair. He wears a high quality suit, has his arm around his mother and is smiling as if this is an obligatory press photo shoot, part and parcel of the job. Not as though he is resentful or enduring an ordeal – just as though it is what he has been asked to do. Sherlock also looks very similar to how he always did when I knew him, although he does not appear to have adopted the robotic quality of his mask to quite the extent he had by the time we met. He too wears a suit. His eyes are piercing, and he is looking straight at the camera. Again, his mouth is pursed as though he disapproves of the whole charade. Maria Holmes definitely looks more like Mycroft.

**Newspaper Clipping, Sussex Telegraph, 10****th**** June 1977: GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEE "STILL MISSING"**

After two months, the whereabouts of British Government auditor Calathil Holmes remains unknown. Authorities admit they 'may never find out what happened". The 39 year old was last seen on CCTV in St James's Park subway station, at 5.30pm on April 10th 1977. He is believed to have boarded a Southbound District Line train. The disappearance is being treated as suspicious, given his promotion to senior secretary only a week before. In an uncanny twist of fate, it is the second such tragedy to hit the Holmes family. Holmes's father, Reginald Murray Holmes, went missing thirty two years previously. He too held a minor position in the British government, and disappeared one week after his promotion.

Holmes's wife, Maria Holmes nee Shirley of Chanley, made an emotional plea to the British Public this afternoon. "Cal is a wonderful man, who would never desert his family voluntarily. We depend upon him, but more importantly, we miss him desperately – there is a huge gap in our family without him. The boys need their father. I need my husband. If you are listening and have information – anything – come forward. If anybody is holding him against his will, please take a look into your hearts and see that what you are doing is hurting many, many people. If you have Cal, just send him back. And Cal, if you can hear us, we love you."

If you or someone you know has any information, please call the missing persons line.


End file.
